Remember Budapest
by warqueenfuriosa
Summary: Before SHIELD, Natasha and Clint tried to kill each other. Natasha works for the KGB, assigned to the Russian ballet where memories of her past rear their ugly heads. Clint is a fugitive on the run, picked up by Special Agent Phil Coulson as a new SHIELD recruit. Then there was Budapest, where no amount of training could prepare them for the choices they are forced to make. AU.
1. A New Mission

**A/N: I could no longer wait for Marvel to come out with a Black Widow movie so that's why this fic came about, to sate my obsession with the perfection that is Clintasha. It'll start out canon and then go slightly AU towards the end. Consider it, "What Marvel should have done with the Clintasha story line." Hope you enjoy! (Also, free hot fresh fudgy yummy brownies for anyone who reviews *winkwink* )**

NATASHA

Natasha could practically smell his fear.

She stood just on the outskirts of the dim circle of light provided by the solitary lamp on the table in Sergei Nobokov's study. She'd made him wait for hours, watching his panic grow, steadily rising to the boiling point until his white linen shirt was soaked with sweat and his pulse jumped at the side of his neck so fast that she wondered if he'd have a full on heart attack before she got the chance to interrogate him.

Of course the spider venom she had injected into a good portion of the wine in the cellar of his massive multi-million dollar mansion probably contributed to his blind fear as well. He had been rendered completely immobile by now, the offending wine glass long since fallen from his fingers and shattered on the floor. He was paralyzed from the neck down and by the time he realized he'd been poisoned…well…she'd already cut the power lines and scrambled his cell phone and any other electronics, leaving him sprawled in a pitiful, helpless heap in his study.

"I know someone's there!" Nobokov shrieked for the hundredth time in the past hour. "Show yourself, you bastard!"

Natasha chuckled, the first noise that she had made to alert him to her presence. Nobokov sucked in a startled breath but he couldn't move to see her as she stepped out of the shadows and into the pale, thin yellow light.

Softly, she started to chant in a sing-song voice as she stood behind him, right in his blind spot so he still couldn't see her. Not yet.

"The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout."

Nobokov started to hyperventilate, mumbling prayers under his breath in Russian so rapidly that the words tumbled over each other and came out mostly unintelligible.

"Down came the rain and washed the spider out."

"Oh god," he sobbed. "Oh god, oh god, no."

"Out came the sun and dried up all the rain."

"Whatever you want, you can have it!" he yelled. "Money, weapons, information, anything, just please, don't hurt me. I know they sent you, I know they want me dead, just…please…don't do it."

Natasha took her time circling around to face him, trailing her fingers along the back of his chair, tapping her fingernails along the wood like spider feet. When she slid her fingers along his shoulder, he hiccupped in surprise and his breathing sped up even more. She marveled he hadn't passed out yet…

"Out came the sun," she said, looking him straight in the eye. "And dried up all the rain."

He squeezed his eyes shut as the song drew to a close, certain his life would end when the lyrics faded.

Natasha reached into the waistband of her jeans and pulled out a pistol, slowly screwing the silencer into place in front of Nobokov. His eyes flew open and he watched her every movement, his pupils blown wide as saucers. She set the muzzle of the gun against his kneecap and he whimpered.

"And the itsy bitsy spider crawled up the spout again."

"What do you want?" he said between gasping breaths. "Just tell me what you want. I don't even know what you want. Please…I…"

"Stop talking."

Nobokov snapped his mouth shut and his lips trembled as he struggled to regain some of his composure.

"Who else do you work with?" she asked, pressing the gun against his kneecap just a little bit more.

"I don't…I don't know who you're talking about."

"Don't play stupid, Nobokov," she chided, tilting her head to the side. She waved the gun around the room. "You bought this place by betraying your partner to HYDRA. It took coordination and contacts to pull that off. You're not an idiot. Well…to a point anyway."

"There's no one else," he said in a shaky voice. "It's just me. I sold the information to a man…"

"What did he look like?"

"I never saw his face. He sent instructions through text messages, I never met him."

"So you had no accomplices? You did all of this on your own?"

"Yes, that's exactly right."

Natasha brought the gun back to his kneecap with a jerk that made him wince in pain. "Wrong answer, Nobokov."

She pulled the trigger.

Nobokov screamed, firing off obscenities that Natasha hadn't ever heard before. His creativity was almost admirable.

"Tell me who you worked with," she said, placing the muzzle of the gun on his other kneecap.

"Alright! Alright, I'll tell you, please, just…don't shoot me again, please."

"Then say it already."

"A woman, she was my contact, but the only one I ever met, I swear to god, please you have to believe me."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "I don't have to believe a damn word you say, not until you prove it. Names, Nobokov, now, or you'll be walking crooked for the rest of your sorry life."

"Galina," he spat out in a rush. "Galina Nemirovsky."

She squinted at him in suspicion. "The ballet dancer?"

"I don't know," he gulped. "I don't…maybe….I don't even know if that's her real name but it's the name she told me."

"Damn it," she muttered to herself. As soon as Chairman Tarasova heard about Nemirovsky, she knew where this would be headed and she didn't like it. She shook her head and returned her attention to Nobokov. Deal with one thing at a time.

"Was there any indication that she had any other connections? Did she mention anyone else to you?"

"I don't think…wait…she had a boyfriend."

Natasha waved impatiently. "Go on."

"I overheard her talking on the phone with him once, I never got his name."

She sighed. "Of course you didn't."

"Please…will you let me go now?"

She flicked her gaze back up to his face and squatted down in front of him. She propped her elbow on her knee, making sure the pistol was still in his line of sight which seemed to be doing a good job of making him terrified of her with very little effort on her part.

"Your partner is dead because of you," she said. "Was it worth it?"

"I thought it would be," he said in a whisper. "But it wasn't."

"Now that," she said, "is the right answer. If only you'd come to realize it earlier, before you ruined your life and turned your partner's children into orphans."

Natasha reached into her coat pocket and produced a small syringe of spider venom, the last one. Nobokov's heart was dangerously close to seizing up, especially with all the stress she'd put on him so far. It wouldn't take much more to push him over the edge.

He begged of course, the usual tearful pleas but Natasha had seen so many men face death at her hands that their words no longer had any effect on her. They were simply words pouring from the mouths of scared men who regretted the decisions that brought them to their tragic end and they thought that maybe she – a woman – would be an angel and have mercy on them if only they said the right thing and touched her heart.

But she was no angel of mercy and she certainly didn't feel like one as she pressed the needle into Nobokov's neck and emptied the syringe into his bloodstream. She didn't wait to watch him die. She'd seen that plenty of times too.

Natasha headed out of the room, leaving Nobokov gasping for air.

She returned everything to its rightful place, turned off the scrambler and fixed the phone lines again. The bright noonday sun streamed in through the floor to ceiling French windows lining one wall facing the ocean. She had to admit, despite the disgust she felt over Nobokov turning his partner in to HYDRA agents for a few million rubles, the man had taste. The house had to have at least twelve bedrooms, four stories, just off the ocean which, in the middle of Tunisia, must have cost a pretty penny since the beaches were always full to bursting. A black, white and gold Prussian rug graced the foyer floor. A glass chandelier, three tiers tall, hung from the arched cathedral style ceiling. There was even a Monet in the living room, placed in the most prominent spot in the house above the fireplace. Too bad it was a fake. She should know since it had taken the better part of a month scouting sweatshops to find the perfect replica that would satisfy Nobokov's casual art critic observations. He'd taken the bait, hook, line and sinker when she sold him the painting a few weeks ago, hoping that would be her ticket inside except he hadn't trusted her and refused to let her in. He decided to do things the hard way and she was all too obliging on that score.

It took all of thirty seconds to find the main security panel hidden behind the fake Monet – she couldn't help but think how disappointingly unoriginal Nobokov was - that controlled the hidden cameras she knew he had throughout the house. They were both KGB officers after all; she knew all the tricks he had up his sleeve. Natasha fried the panel with a well-placed bullet, effectively wiping out any record of their earlier encounter.

With business finished, Natasha began to leave then paused and backtracked a few steps. On the silky smooth mahogany table in the main entry hall sat a picture – Nobokov, a smiling woman and two little girls. Natasha stared at the picture as her heartbeat roared in her ears, her thoughts focused on the dead man in the study.

She slammed the picture face down on the table and hurried out of the house.

Blinding sunlight and waves of burning heat washed over her. She pulled a rolled up baseball cap from her back pocket, tucked her curls up as she tugged the cap low over her eyes and melted into the throng of humanity that swelled in the street. People, bleating animals, vehicles, bicycles and carts churned together, jostling and shoving. Despite the suffocating heat, Tunisia was the perfect place to disappear with its constant buzz of energy which, she supposed, was why Nobokov had chosen it. Turn traitor on his mother country of Russia, vanish into the Middle East and never be heard from again. It was a tad arid for her tastes though. She could manage the crowds just fine – some parts of Russia were even busier than this – but she didn't appreciate the sensation of her skin cracking like dry plaster.

As Natasha headed to the rendezvous point – a small side café a few blocks away – she called Chairman Tarasova.

"The snake has been skinned," she said.

"Excellent work as always, Romanoff," Tarasova said. "And your report?"

"An unidentified male employed him, no name, no face, nothing on that end."

"But….?"

She hesitated only a moment. There wasn't much point in delaying the inevitable. "He worked with Galina Nemirovsky."

"Is it really her or an alias?"

"No idea. He also mentioned a boyfriend but again, no name."

Tarasova sighed in annoyance. "I could have sworn Nobokov was a better agent than this. Alright, well, we'll put you on Nemirovsky for the time being until we can find out more."

"I thought I was laying low after this one."

"You're the best candidate to get close to Nemirovsky with your background."

Natasha gritted her teeth. She did not want this mission but she was quickly losing ground and she didn't like it. "Like hell I'm the only agent that fits the bill. I don't do these gigs, Tarasova, you know that."

"And you know you'd be the quickest and most natural fit that wouldn't raise any sort of suspicion. If Nemirovsky really did work with Nobokov, we can't take the risk of running her off. You're right, I do have another agent but he's out of commission. He took a shotgun blow to the shoulder last week and it'll take months to recover. We don't have that kind of time."

Natasha sighed and held the phone to her chest. It took every ounce of her willpower not to chuck the phone into the street and walk away, disappear for a few years until the whole thing blew over. Saying no to the KGB wasn't exactly an option though since it would earn her the black list – a place she definitely didn't want to be. Pretty soon, she would be faced with the grim reality of checkmate in about one or two moves here which did not make her happy in the slightest.

"I can't do the Bolshoi Theatre again," she said quietly. "I can't."

"Look, Natasha," Tarasova said, her usually brusque all-business voice lowered to a softer level. "I know it reminds you of…"

"Don't," she cut in. "I don't want to talk about it."

"You loved him, I get that, but refusing this assignment is not professional and…"

"Fine, I'll do the damn job. I said I don't want to talk about it and we're not going to. Now, is Turnegov still coming to pick me up or do I have to find a goat herder to get me out of here?"

She could practically hear the triumph in Tarasova's voice. "Yes, he's still coming. There will also be a change of clothes on the plane and I'll make arrangements for when you arrive in Russia. I'll get a handler on your case within the week. And Romanoff?"

"What?"

"Good luck," she said. "If I'd had any other options, I wouldn't put you through this again."

Natasha didn't answer and hung up instead, letting out a puff of air. The Bolshoi wouldn't be easy. She liked a challenge but that was the last place on earth she wanted to be. Depending on how long she had to stay in Moscow, the whole assignment could turn out to be a bust anyway. Keeping up wasn't an issue since she had to stay physically fit for her job anyway, but it had been a good long while since she had donned her ballet slippers. Performing in front of a crowd, on the stage…it brought back too many memories, memories that she would prefer had stayed buried where they belonged.

As promised, Turnegov was waiting at the rendezvous point, a little hole in the wall café with mismatched and chipped china cups and the bleating of goats drifting from somewhere behind the restaurant. He sat at an outdoor table, legs propped up on a chair, smoking a cigarette and clad from head to toe in black leather despite the glaring sun. When he spotted her, he dropped his cigarette into the dust, ground it in with his heel and came to join her. Without a word, they exchanged a firm, brief handshake. Turnegov inclined his head to the side in a silent indication to follow him and they walked, shoulder to shoulder, through the streets until the city began to thin. Turnegov's private jet was already on the tarmac, the black pavement shimmering in wave after wave of unrelenting heat.

Once she was on the plane, Natasha found a large white paper bag. Warily, she peered inside and pulled out a slim black dress, a pair of three inch heels, a sleek white mink coat and a small black clutch purse that fit in the palm of her hand yet contained at least half a dozen hidden pockets for her pistol, her widow's bite bracelets and whatever else she might need. A velvet jewelry box lay at the bottom with a matching set of diamond necklace and chandelier earrings. By the time this assignment was over, she'd be ready to kill for a pair of sweats and a ratty t-shirt.

Natasha arrived in Moscow in the hazy, blue-gray hours of the morning. She took a deep breath, adjusted her mink coat tighter around her shoulders, tipped her chin up and descended the stairs, fully in character for the mission. It didn't matter that most of Russia was probably still asleep, she had to play her part at all times. She would be in the public eye constantly for however long this mission lasted and a crack in her mask, even for a moment, could cost her dearly.

A dark limo was waiting on the edge of the runway for her. As she started towards it, trying to remain indifferent to the biting cold wind that nipped at her cheeks, a chauffeur in a crisp suit and tall shiny black boots stepped out of the car and opened the door for her. She slid into the backseat and immediately put her hands over the heating vent. Natasha waited until the car was in motion before she spoke.

"Morning, Ivan," she said with a smile.

The chauffeur glanced in the rearview mirror and she could tell he smiled slightly in return by the way his eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Good morning to you too, little one. How was your flight?"

"Exhausting, but uneventful. And you? How was your weekend?"

Ivan shrugged. "As you say, uneventful. However, I did find some sixteenth century books on old Russia at that antique store three blocks away from my apartment."

"You'll have to show me sometime, I'd love to see them."

Ivan laughed softly as he maneuvered onto the congested Russian highway. Secretly, Natasha was glad that she didn't have to drive, that she could rely on Ivan's skilled practice to get her safely anywhere she needed to go. She didn't mind the chaos – she thrived off of it in her job after all – but it was a rare experience to watch the chaos rather than react to it.

"It's going to be a long while before you get time off to visit me, little one," Ivan pointed out.

Natasha closed her eyes and leaned back against the seat. This was the only place she allowed herself to relax. She trusted Ivan like she trusted no one else and he took great pains to ensure that his limo was never bugged, no transmitters of any kind could monitor their conversations so she could speak as freely as she needed to. Natasha had been around the world countless times, knew every nook and dirty cranny of the lowliest, nastiest places but here, tucked into the warm soft seats of Ivan's limo, this was the one place where she ever felt truly safe and at peace. Her job didn't account for much of that anywhere else. Tarasova could bribe, threaten, cajole and order her around but she could never provide a place of safety like Ivan did.

"At least a couple years," she agreed. "Please tell me you'll visit me in that time though."

He nodded. "Of course I will. Any opportunity I get to see my little one is an opportunity I'll take."

Natasha traced one finger in lazy circles on the window. "You'll always call me that, won't you? No matter how old I get?"

"Until the day I die."

She leaned forward and squeezed his shoulder. "I'll hold you to that."

"I don't doubt it. I'm sure you have plenty of ways to ensure that I follow through on my promise. I just hope you keep the torture to a minimum," he teased.

Before she could protest, Ivan came to a stop outside of an elegant apartment building, all steel and white marble. It looked like Tarasova was pulling all the punches this round. She really wanted to get her hands on any traitors in the KGB and sniff them out before they did any more damage. As much as Tarasova rubbed her the wrong way, she certainly knew how to set her up in style. She could just make out the elaborate façade of the Bolshoi a few blocks down the road, a discreet amount of space yet not enough to distance her from the job either.

Ivan opened the car door for her and stood to the side, his back ramrod straight, his gaze focused on a far off distant spot, playing his part of impersonal chauffeur just as well as she played her part of diva ballerina. Natasha headed inside while Ivan retrieved her luggage from the trunk. As soon as she stepped across the threshold, she was nearly blinded by the lavish gold and white décor of the lobby. A chandelier of crystal butterflies hung from the ceiling. White velvet chairs and couches were scattered through the spacious room to allow privacy and still accommodate a healthy number of people. A garden of exotic white orchids stood front and center, an understated yet tasteful compliment to the expensive statement of the rest of the room.

Natasha approached the front desk, working on slipping back into her swaying dancer's walk. It had been a couple years but it felt like trying on a favorite pair of old and familiar gloves as she let her hips swing, her back straighten, her chin tip up. It felt…good. Right. She never realized how much she'd missed it…

The clerk shuffled through some papers, his head bent low, lost in his tasks. He looked a little young for the job, especially for such high end clients, but everyone had to start somewhere, she thought. Natasha tapped her fingers against the white marble countertop in a persistent, steady rhythm. The clerk glanced up briefly then back down to his papers and did a double take. He stared at her, wide-eyed.

"Miss…Madam…I…"

"It's Miss Romanoff," she supplied. "I believe you have my key?"

The clerk fumbled with the papers and they scattered to the floor. He stuttered profuse apologies that came out garbled and backwards in his haste and nervousness. After a minute of that, she gave an exaggerated and impatient sigh then gestured to the wall behind the clerk where the keys all hung on pegs.

"Behind you."

The clerk gave a sharp nod and finally took a breath for the first time since he'd seen her. "Right, of course."

He abandoned his desperate, futile efforts of cleaning up his papers now spread all over the desk and floor, snatched up her key, turned and smiled at her, much more composed this time.

"Welcome to Moscow, Miss. Romanoff. It's a pleasure to have you back. We would be happy to assist you in any way possible."

"I certainly hope so," she said and whisked off, leaving the poor boy gaping after her. The cool, aloof personas she was given on occasion were a bear to maintain but at the same time, they had their perks, especially when she left those poor souls behind, amazed, in awe of her charm and charisma. She didn't even have to do much of anything. The mere idea that she was a world renowned ballerina was enough to set people to staring. If she had to be completely honest with herself…she kind of liked the power just a little bit. It became exhausting after a while but she'd revel in it for as long as the thrill lasted. The novelty would wear off soon enough.

Her apartment – six stories up - didn't disappoint either. Tarasova must have called in some sizeable favors to pull this place off. The room was huge and red, deep, blood red everywhere – carpets, cushions, pillows, curtains. A gold Buddha fountain stood in the center of the room like a mountain amid the sea of red. A handful of monochrome watercolor paintings had been placed sparingly along the walls and, as she passed, she ran her fingers long the edges of each painting, checking for bugs or wires, more out of habit than anything else. One wall of her new apartment was made up entirely of windows that overlooked Moscow, a bird's eye view of her domain for the next couple of years.

Ivan entered the apartment then, pushing a cart loaded with various suitcases and bags. His eyebrows shot up but he maintained his cover and said nothing. Natasha smiled a little to herself. Ivan always liked to check out her new living arrangements whenever he got the chance which wasn't often given that she travelled so much. On those missions where he had to stay behind, for his safety as well as hers, she didn't tell him what her living arrangements were like. He worried more than enough already; there was no need to add to his concerns.

As he unloaded her cart, she caught him stealing quick glances around the apartment, taking it in. She couldn't help but notice the look of satisfaction in his eyes; she was being well taken care of and spoiled for all the risks she was taking. She suspected it was that protective, fatherly nature of his creeping in. He hid it so well for the most part but other times, he let her know how much he was still hoping that she switch to a regular nine-to-five job and settle down with a passel of fat, happy children.

"Are you in need of anything else?" he asked then added with a slight tone of amusement. "Miss Romanoff."

She shot him a haughty look, choosing to stay in character and play along. He would pay for his teasing.

"No, that will be all. I'm staying in for the rest of the evening so there's no need to have the car ready."

Ivan gave a sharp bow at the waist and when he straightened up again, there was a mixture of pride and that creeping worry in his eyes again but he covered for it well and winked then headed out to leave her in her new territory alone. She moved to the window again, taking in the impressive and majestic Bolshoi theatre in the distance, the last place she thought she'd ever see again.


	2. Brothers

CLINT

Clint hooked two fingers on the edge of the curtain and pulled it back. People poured into the main tent, some carrying sodas or lemon shake ups, others carrying giant pretzels or popcorn in grease-stained red and white paper bags as they edged along the bleachers and settled in for the show. He could practically feel the electric crackle of excitement in the air as the anticipation began to build like thunderclouds on the horizon. After their fifth and final day in Wichita, it had proven to be the most lucrative city on their circuit so far this year. Every night was sold out with people still clamoring at the gates to be let in.

Clint double checked his arrows for the thousandth time in the past five minutes, running his thumb along the razor sharp tip of each arrowhead, sighting down the shafts and then making sure they were tucked into the quiver, perfectly snug. He moved onto his bow next, caressing the smooth, worn curves of the dark oak wood with the lightest touch, checking for any dings, cuts or scrapes. He pulled the string back and felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten in response to the tension. His bow had been with him for show after show ever since he joined the circus fifteen…sixteen….years ago. Maybe it was time to replace the old beauty but he just couldn't bring himself to do it yet.

"You're reminiscing again."

Clint turned to see his brother, Barney, watching him, arms crossed with an amused smile on his face. Sometimes it amazed Clint that the two of them were brothers. Clint was short, stocky, round in the face and his hair was always getting messed up if he didn't keep it cropped short. Barney, on the other hand, was the spitting image of their father – curly dark hair, sharp blue eyes, tall and broad in the shoulders. He inherited Dad's temper too. More than once, Clint had to run interference and drag his brother away from a fist fight because he took some offhanded comment the wrong way.

"Can't help it sometimes," Clint replied with a shrug. "It was my first real bow, kind of got attached I guess."

"You're a sap, you know that?" Barney shook his head and took the bow from Clint, looking it over, testing the string as Clint has done earlier but it wasn't the same thing. Barney studied and analyzed it like it was nothing more than a tool, but Clint _felt_ it, remembered every story behind every scratch. Because it was Clint's bow, not Barney's. He'd practically slept with the damn thing ever since Mr. Carson gave it to him when Clint and Barney were rookies on the carnival circuit, what felt like a lifetime ago now.

Finally, Barney handed the bow back and Clint folded his arms over it like a protective father reunited with his long lost child. Barney was the only one he trusted to touch his bow, no one else at the carnival, no matter how well he knew them, was allowed to lay a finger on it. That was the rule for most any of the equipment though. The carnies made a living through the tools of their trade. If anyone accidently tampered with something or, god forbid, caused damage in any way, it could be at the cost of someone's livelihood.

"I remember when that bow was bigger than you were," Barney said.

"And I remember how much you laughed when the only way I could pull the string back was with both hands."

"Gotta get my kicks somewhere," Barney replied with a smirk. "What are little brothers for if not for entertainment?"

"Don't you have some elephant shit to shovel up somewhere, big brother?" Clint teased.

Barney took a playful swipe at Clint's head but after years of Barney being far too predictable, Clint managed to duck with plenty of room to spare. He took a step back out of arm's reach and shot his brother a grin.

"Must be close to show time," Barney replied, "your trash talk gets worse so you don't puke from the nerves."

"That was one time!"

"And you're never living it down."

Clint groaned and Barney seized his window of opportunity. He locked Clint under one arm and rubbed his knuckles over Clint's head, ruffling his hair.

"Hey! No! Get off me!" Clint protested as he squirmed free.

Barney let him go and laughed at the scowl of indignation on Clint's face. Clint smoothed his hair down, sulking all the while.

"Will you ever quit that?" he demanded. "Geez, I'm not eight years old anymore. I'll kick your ass the next time you do that."

"I'd like to see you try," Barney grinned.

Clint was about to protest when the music started up. A silent flurry of activity ignited back stage as the carnies scrambled to their positions or crammed in last minute touches to their costumes. Clint shouldered his quiver and took another peek out of the curtains as Mr. Carson took to the center of the ring in his glittering red coattails and black top hot with a peacock feather fluttering in the brim. He spread his arms wide to address the now utterly silent and attentive crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. His voice filled the silent tent as the audience hung on his every word. "Welcome to my humble and ever intriguing Carnival of Travelling Wonders."

As Carson began his opening speech, Clint slipped out from behind the curtain and climbed the ladder to the acrobat's platform, three stories high. This moment was one of his favorites – the audience hadn't seen him yet, he could watch them from above as they took in the show, lights, dancers, magicians, animals… He had felt that way when he first joined, like the carnival was pure magic, filled with wonder when the lights were turned low and the performance began.

Now that he lived back stage and saw the chaos that happened before, during and after every show…there wasn't any magic to it. More like a backbreaking amount of planning, careful orchestration, perfect timing, solid trust and a healthy dose of luck.

Carson finished his speech and bowed out. The audience burst into deafening applause as the dancers spilled into the ring, fluttering like butterflies with their ribbon streamers. Their multi-colored skirts whirled, making each dancer look like a spinning top, dizzying yet mesmerizing to watch.

The platform trembled slightly as more acrobats filed up the ladder – little Dilly, the youngest of the group who smiled shyly at Clint as she lined up in front of him, waiting for her cue to launch onto the trapeze bar. Next came the twins, Lucia and Laila, all long limbs and wide, dark eyes. Close on their heels was Philippe, the anchor of the team who would catch the girls as they flew from one trapeze bar to the next. Clint would be the last to go and wrap up the act.

The dancers filed out and the spotlight flew to Philippe and Dilly. Philippe sat on the bar as Dilly clambered up to stand on his shoulders and they swung out. As soon as they left the platform, Philippe tipped backwards and Dilly stepped off of his shoulders. Philippe caught her slim wrists in his large, calloused hands and like a tiny arrow, Dilly used the momentum to propel herself up, up, up. At the apex of the swing, Philippe let go, Dilly tucked into a tight ball, spun three times, so high that her long blonde ponytail smacked the roof of the tent. She unfurled her body with deceptive ease and caught Philippe's hands again. Safe. Clint sucked in a relieved breath as the audience applauded. Philippe swung back and took Laila and Lucia, one girl dangling from each arm.

Clint had watched them perform this act over and over countless times but Dilly was so small, Laila and Lucia were so thin and fragile looking that he still found himself holding his breath. Carson insisted that no net was employed during the performance to heighten the sense of danger, as if it wasn't already bad enough. Philippe never dropped anyone though and the girls never missed their cues as they fearlessly twisted and spun through the air but it wouldn't take much more than a wobble for the act to crumble. He knew that all too well.

Laila was returned to the platform first and elbowed him slightly in the ribs. He shook himself from his thoughts. His time was almost up. He double checked his quiver one last time as Carson took to the ring again.

"I have no doubt that you've all heard of the legendary William Tell and his famous apple trick."

The crowd responded in agreement.

"Excellent, very good. You're a well-educated group, I see. Then you'll understand my proposal and how unique it is. What if I told you, our next act would put William Tell to shame? What if I told you our next act.…" He paused for dramatic effect, knowing that his next words would be what the crowd had been waiting for all this time. "…had the eyes of a hawk?"

The crowd erupted, the noise rising to a deafening crescendo. Philippe held the trapeze in place as Clint positioned himself to stand on the bar, his feet wedged against the ropes, his stomach pulled in tight and his back ramrod straight. The spotlight swung up towards him, blinding him, and turned the rest of the tent completely dark. The audience vanished, Carson disappeared, Dilly, Philippe, Laila and Lucia, gone. It was just him and his bow and arrows as Philippe let go of the trapeze. The air rushed by with a whispering hum. He supposed this was the closest he could come to flying as he felt the empty space roaring in silence around him. The ground gaped at him somewhere below in the darkness like a giant mouth ready for a momentary lapse of balance to swallow his broken, mangled body.

There. A flutter of lighter shadow amid the darker ones.

He fired six arrows in quick succession until he swung back to the platform and stepped off the trapeze. The glaring spotlight switched away from him and panned down to a board in the middle of the ring where six playing cards were pinned to its surface. An arrow protruded from each card, dead center.

Once the show was over, Clint wanted nothing more than to sit back with a couple of beers and maybe some pizza. He was beyond exhausted, if that was possible. Sometimes he felt like he hardly did anything during his performance compared to the dancers and the other acrobats but every show still left him feeling drained, as if he had run a marathon in about five minutes.

He sat outside the main tent in the dim, golden glow of the lightbulb strands suspended all throughout the carnival grounds and around the eaves of each tent while he cleaned his arrows. A few minutes later, as was the usual post-show tradition, Jacques joined him, still dressed in his swordsman costume – a pair of dark blue pantaloons tied off with a bright red sash around his waist, a black and gold vest over his broad, tanned, muscular torso. The outrageous handlebar mustache though…well…that was all Jacques.

Clint hooked his foot around a nearby stool and pulled it out. Jacques accepted the invitation gratefully and produced a fat cigar from his pocket. He studiously took his time as he lit it up, blew three large smoke circles, smelling sweet and slightly of smoky pepper, into the air, watching each one dissipate completely before releasing another one. He stretched his legs out and sighed.

"Think I'm getting too old for this," he grunted.

Clint chuckled and shook his head. He said that every single night after every single show but Clint knew it was all talk. Jacques would have to be dead before he'd quit the carnival. He'd taken Clint and Barney under his wing when they were scrawny little runaways, determined to make their own way in the world. Nearly all the carnies looked to him as a father figure, grumpy and maybe a little on the churlish side, but a father figure nonetheless.

"You know you love it," Clint replied. "Unless the idea of an office job is suddenly holding some mysterious appeal."

Jacques squinted at him. "Gettin' a little big for your britches, kid. Don't think I won't flip you over my knee and beat some respect into your smartass."

"Oh, I believe you…if you could catch me that is," he added with a sly grin.

Purely by accident, Clint had found out at a young age that Jacques was terrified of heights. For the longest time, both Clint and Barney had been convinced Jacques was afraid of nothing. So when Clint found out that he could sit all day on the trapeze bar in the main tent and all Jacques could do was mutter a string of obscenities at him in French from the ground…that was a good day for Clint. Not so much for Jacques.

"You can hide in the rafters of that tent like a damn bird all you want but it has to come down at some point. It's only a matter of time before you're in my territory again," Jacques muttered.

Footsteps rustled in the grass just outside the glow of the lightbulbs signaling the arrival of company. Barney stepped into the light, carrying a six pack under one arm.

"You threatenin' my brother again?" Barney teased.

"Just to whip him into shape is all," Jacques replied. "That mouth is gonna get him into trouble one day."

Barney doled out the beers and settled in the grass cross-legged, leaning back on one hand. "I couldn't agree more."

Clint nudged him with his foot. "Shut up."

Barney shoved back twice as hard and Clint nearly toppled off his chair. "By the way, Miss Carson was looking for you," Barney said.

Clint sat up and shot his brother a dirty look. "Marcella? Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

Barney shrugged. "Forgot I guess, I don't know."

Hurriedly, Clint stuffed his arrows back into their quiver and slung it over his shoulder along with his bow. "Well do you remember what she wanted me for at least?"

"Look at you, all flustered for the boss' daughter."

"I'm not flustered, Barney, I'm pissed that you didn't tell me. Now answer the question already."

Barney shrugged again and sipped at his beer. As much as Clint loved his brother and would stick with him to the end, there were moments – like right now – where he wanted to strangle him with his bare hands.

"Better not keep her waiting too much longer, brat," Barney said.

Clint growled and took off in search of Marcella. It was weird that Barney simply "forgot" like that. When they were growing up, Barney was always the one who remembered everything. Even when they lived on the streets for a few months, sleeping under bridges or in the woods, Barney remembered Clint's birthday and managed to scrounge up a few bucks to buy a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice-cream to share between them. Barney didn't forget unless he had a reason to but that only left Clint at square one again, wondering why Marcella had so conveniently slipped Barney's mind.

The Carsons' trailer sat on the far side of the carnival, as far away from the noisy crowds as possible to take advantage of the most peace and quiet. Little pools of golden light spilled through the gaps in the curtains but that didn't necessarily mean Marcella was in there. Carson wasn't exactly all that keen on a carny showing any interest in his daughter. He may have agreed to take Clint and Barney on when they were still just kids who could barely lift a hay bale let alone do any real work but that didn't mean he had to trust them. Besides, Carson was the boss and technically not _really _part of the carnival like the other workers. He never went out for a few drinks with them, never sat around the winter fires late into the night as they swapped stories or got tipsy on too much spiced punch. Carson purposefully kept himself on the outskirts of the carnies. They worked for him and nothing more.

Clint took a breath, smoothed his hands down the front of his shirt and swallowed hard. He was really regretting that beer now that it was threatening to come back up. Finally, he knocked three times and waited. A slight shuffling came from inside then the door opened and Marcella was there, wrapped up in a pink bathrobe, her usually perfect golden curls piled atop her head in a messy bun. So she was already in for the night, he thought. Something was really off here…

"Clint, hey," she said with a bright smile.

"I…were you asleep? I didn't mean to wake you."

"No, I wasn't actually, just doing a little reading." She paused, rubbing her fingernail in the wood of the doorframe with intense concentration. "Was there something you needed?"

He blinked, stunned. "You…weren't looking for me then?"

Marcella frowned and shook her head. "No…"

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. Barney had played him. It was all a set up to make Clint look like an idiot.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Sorry to bother you."

"Clint, wait," she said, taking a step down from the trailer and placing a hand on his arm. "Would you like to stay a while? I'd enjoy the company."

Even in the dim light from the trailer, he could see the fierce blush that crept up her neck and blossomed across her cheeks. Marcella was a sweet girl, barely twenty, and at one time, he'd entertained the idea of dating her for a while until Jacques finally got it through his thick skull that girls like Marcella, with their fancy boarding school education, did not have time for guys like Clint who joined the carnival to escape their rap sheet a mile long. So he stopped trying to catch Marcella's attention…but that didn't mean if she showed any interest that he had to keep his distance.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," he finally admitted. He felt as if he practically had to scrape the words out of his throat. Of course he wanted to hang around, especially since she was the one who had asked him to stay but Carson would skin him alive. Barney had worked too hard to get them here only to have Clint throw it away because the boss' daughter was cute.

"I should get going, let you finish that book," he said, backing away.

"Oh, alright, maybe another time," she replied in a small voice that made Clint's chest ache. He almost stopped right there and changed his mind, almost followed her into the trailer….but he took another step back. It was better this way, he kept repeating to himself, hoping it would sink in and he would finally believe it.

When Marcella retreated inside her trailer and shut the door, Clint broke into a dead run back to where he had left Jacques and Barney but they were gone, leaving nothing behind but two empty beer bottles. Barney had pranked him plenty of times before but they had been harmless and stupid incidents, like a pie in the face. Not like this.

He checked Barney's trailer but the lights were off and when he pounded on the door, there was no answer.

"Barney, if you're in there, open the damn door right now."

Silence.

He pounded three more times but still Barney didn't answer. Maybe he'd slipped off somewhere with one of the dancers. Jacques might know. Clint headed to Jacques' trailer but met the same situation again. Nobody was home. He let out a huff of frustration. It was perfectly normal for any one of the carnies to disappear for a few hours, even a few days then return like nothing ever happened. The fact that Jacques and Barney both had disappeared at the same time without telling him where they were going…it felt wrong.

He backtracked to Barney's trailer and settled on the steps, resting his bow and arrows across his knees. Whenever Barney got back, Clint would be waiting for him and he would finally get an explanation as to what the hell was going on here.

"BARTON."

Clint must have dozed off at some point last night. He jerked awake at the sound of his name and blinked in the glaring sunlight. Carson marched towards him with what must have been half the crew on his tail and grabbed a fistful of Clint's shirt collar. He dragged Clint closer until they were mere inches away from each other.

"After everything I've done for you," Carson growled, waving one of Clint's arrows in his face. "This is how you repay me?"

Clint frowned. "I'm…lost."

Carson flung the arrow at Clint's chest with a harmless smack. Clint caught it before it fell to the ground. Where did this come from? He still had all of his arrows with him. No one could have stolen this one but it looked exactly like his arrows, with the purple and black fletching, the sleek black shaft, the silver tips.

"This isn't mine," he said. "I swear."

"Like hell it isn't."

"It's not! Look," he insisted, holding his quiver up to show that not a single arrow was missing. "All of mine are accounted for. Where did you get it?"

"Don't play stupid, Barton, it doesn't suit you."

"I swear to god I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I found it in my trailer after you robbed me!"

Clint's mouth worked open and closed for a second, too stunned to speak. He switched his gaze to the crowd, searching for an understanding face but instead he was greeted with accusatory glares or sad looks of confusion. If he didn't get himself out of this fast, it wasn't going to end well. It wouldn't be taken to the police. The carnies preferred to keep trouble in the family and deal with things their own way. A couple years back, the lion tamer had lost his temper and turned his whip on his wife. The next morning found the lion tamer at the bottom of the local river in teeny tiny pieces. Since most of the carnies consisted of runaways or criminals, nobody thought twice about it let alone reported it. Clint really, really did not want to end up in little pieces at the bottom of the local river…

"I didn't do it," he finally managed to choke out. "I've been here all night."

Carson squinted at him. "Marcella said you paid a visit to her."

Clint hesitated. Admitting to that would only damn him even further considering he knew how Carson felt about Clint spending time around his daughter. However, if he lied about it – no matter how convincing he was – Carson would naturally side with Marcella and he'd be in even deeper trouble. He was in way over his head on this one and there didn't seem to be a clean getaway.

"I…did," Clint slowly agreed. "But only because I was told she wanted to see me."

Carson raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms. "Really? Why don't I believe you?"

"Turned out to be a prank," he finished with a wince. It sounded horribly weak even to his own ears.

"And then you just decided to spend the night outside your brother's trailer for…what reason again?"

"I was looking for him, couldn't find him. Thought I'd wait here until he got back."

"Funny you should say that," Carson said, raising one hand above his head and flicking two fingers forward. "Because Barney was the one who spotted you outside my trailer last night walking away with thirty thousand dollars of my cash in your pockets."

Clint felt himself sway on the steps as his breath caught in his throat. Barney stepped up next to Carson, his gaze cold, unyielding and….disappointed. That was the part that hurt more than Carson's accusations, more than half the carnival, the only family he had ever known, looking at him like he had just sold his first born child. It was Barney's disappointment that cut deeper than anything else. No matter what they had gone through together – losing their parents, getting shipped off to that god awful orphanage for six years, running away and living on the streets until the carnival came along – they always stuck together. Barney could have left him behind at any point but he never did because they were brothers, they were family.

For the first time, Clint found himself alone, without his brother to back him up.

"Barney," Clint whispered. "Tell them it's not true. I didn't do this."

"I wish I could believe that," he said, "but Jacques saw it too."

Clint couldn't breathe. He felt as if the kicks just kept on coming right to the gut even though he was already down. There was no way he could dig himself out of this one. If Barney had been on his side, he might have been able to scrape his way out of it or make a run for it and start over someplace else. Now that Jacques had ganged up against him too…he'd lost before the fight even started. He never had a chance.

Carson cleared his throat. "Look, I'll make it a little easier on you if you just tell me where the money is."

"I can't tell you because I don't know," he said, forcing his voice to be even despite the desperation that shivered through every nerve in his body. "That isn't my arrow. Barney and Jacques are lying but I have no idea why. I'm being set up."

"Clint," Barney reprimanded in a soft tone that made Clint's stomach churn. "Don't be like that. It's over. You've been caught. Just admit it already. Don't make this any harder than it already is."

Clint shot to his feet. "I DIDN'T DO IT. Why are you acting like this Barney? You lied about Marcella wanting to see me last night. Now you're lying about seeing me with Carson's money? Is there something I'm not getting here?"

Carson made to grab Clint's arm but he twisted away and took a large step back out of reach.

"I tried to be nice," Carson said through gritted teeth, his face red with fury. "But the offer is no longer on the table. Tell me where the money is or we'll do this the hard way."

Clint took another slow step back and Barney stepped closer, keeping the space between them even. He had to get out before Carson pinned him down somewhere, using whatever means necessary to get the information he wanted. Clint had no idea what methods Carson would use but he didn't want to find out. His imagination could fill in the blanks well enough.

"You're right, Carson," Clint said, tightening his hold on his bow. "You too, Barney."

"So you did steal from me," Carson ground out. "You bastard."

"No, I still hold true to what I've said."

Carson frowned and started to protest but Clint cut him off.

"After all the two of you have done for me, I could never repay you."

He whipped an arrow from his quiver and fired at Carson, pinning his sleeve to the trailer. Clint took off running through the maze of tents, booths and animal cages. Barney's footsteps thundered close behind but with every sharp, weaving turn he took, Clint gained a little more headway and Barney fell just a little further behind. Clint ducked into the darkened tent where the tigers were held during the day to keep them quiet and slid into the shadows. Barney barreled in after him and pulled up short.

"I know you're in here, brat," he panted.

Clint said nothing, merely pulled another arrow from his quiver and notched it. He would never kill his brother but a little nick to the leg or shoulder to slow him down couldn't hurt too much. He lined up the shot as Barney crept further into the tent as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Barney was entirely at his mercy. After what Barney had done to him, he didn't deserve a graze on the arm. It wouldn't take much to adjust the shot just a little more, line it up in the center of his chest….

Clint tucked the arrow back into his quiver, shouldered his bow and stepped out of the shadows. Barney started, surprised that Clint was so close and he hadn't even realized it.

"That's right," Clint said. "I had you in my sights and I didn't take the shot."

"Am I supposed to thank you?" Barney spat out.

"Where did we go wrong, Barney?" Clint asked softly. "We stuck together through hell and back again to have it end like this?

"Save the sentimental crap, Clint. This is your fault, not mine."

"You know I didn't do anything."

"That's just it: you did everything. Jacques always favored you. Then Marcella took to fawning all over you too. I knew, every time she looked your way that someday I would be the one in the cold while you cozied up with the boss. Marcella will take over the carnival when Carson's gone and you'd be right there, head of the whole operation. It should be my place, not yours."

"So that's what this is about?" Clint rasped in horror and disbelief. "You framed me because you're jealous?"

"Call it a little insurance that I get what's rightfully mine."

Barney charged but Clint was ready. He side stepped and brought his fist up into Barney's gut. He doubled up, gasping, and in a way, it was as if Clint felt it too, tearing at his insides. Sure, he'd had a few fights with his brother but not like this, not intentionally out to possibly kill each other. He could practically feel the rage pouring off of Barney as he straightened and swiped at Clint, clipping him on the jaw so hard that he heard a high-pitched ringing in his ears.

Clint stumbled backwards and shook his head to clear the blinking black spots dancing across his vision. Barney was already coming at him again and Clint barely had time to steady himself. He ripped an arrow from his quiver at the same time that Barney caught him around the middle. As they fell, Clint brought the arrow down in between Barney's shoulder blades. They hit the ground, Barney's weight knocking the air clear out of Clint's lungs. He wheezed and coughed against the tightness in his chest, fighting for breath.

Barney didn't move.

Clint shoved at his brother's limp body, rolling him to the side and he scrambled to his feet, prepared to fight. Still, Barney remained where he lay, his eyes closed. A choked sound came from Clint's throat as he dropped to his knees next to Barney.

"Oh dear god, no, no please, no, I didn't mean…"

He checked Barney's pulse and felt a steady thrum beneath his fingers. He sucked in a shaky breath of relief and rested his forehead on Barney's chest. The idea that Barney would have killed him first if he didn't defend himself was not in the least bit comforting. It should never have come to this in the first place, brother fighting against brother. They always fought back to back, against the world, not each other.

Clint grabbed fistfuls of his brother's shirt, the burn of tears threatening to spill over. "I never wanted the carnival or Marcella. You could have had it all if you'd _just told me _that's what you wanted, damn it."

Gingerly, he pulled the arrow out of his brother's back – it didn't go nearly as deep as he thought it had – and tore off one of the sleeves from his shirt to press to the wound. That was the best he could do for his brother and quite possibly the last. Someone would find him soon enough, he could hear people hunting for him outside, searching the carnival. He dashed the back of his hand across his eyes and ducked out of the back door to the tent, constantly scanning his surroundings for anyone who might be looking for him.

He managed to make it to the rides, all folded up and loaded onto the trucks, ready to go. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that no one was nearby then he swung himself up and squirmed his way into the piles of equipment, steel rods and gears. His breathing sounded harsh and erratic in the tight space as he huddled between a Ferris wheel basket and the leering face of a life-sized plastic clown. He forced himself to calm down, to breathe evenly again despite the cloying smell of grease, oil and stale fried food that surrounded him. It was going to be a very long wait before he could move again and he couldn't afford to lose it right now. Thin slivers of light slipped between the stacks of equipment and Clint made sure to press himself as deep into the shadows as he could possibly get.

Hours crept by and Clint's legs cramped up but he stayed perfectly still. Occasionally, shuffling footsteps would wander by, pause outside the truck then continue on. At some point, the footsteps stopped coming. The only thing Clint had to judge the passage of time was the light as it shifted and grew dim. His stomach ached with hunger. The beer with Barney and Jacques was the last thing he'd had to eat and that was probably a full day ago by now.

Finally, the truck rumbled to life, rattling and shifting the equipment. Clint squeezed his eyes closed as the giant steel rods and gears groaned around him, praying they would stay in place and not crush him to death. Gravel crunched beneath the tires with agonizing slowness then gave way to the smooth rush of the highway. He wasn't out of the woods just yet. At any time, Carson could call a stop to the caravan and decide to check the trucks. As soon as they had to fuel up, he'd be gone, find another vehicle maybe or hitch a ride. Just put as much distance between himself and the carnival as possible.

As expected, the caravan made a stop about three hours later. Clint wormed his way out of the stifling equipment and darted behind the gas station. Two employee cars were parked out back, a junky little four door sedan and a convertible Jeep with the top down. Lady Luck looked like she finally decided to start siding with him for once. He scrambled over the top and slid into the driver's seat, setting his bow and arrows into the passenger's seat next to him. No keys in the ignition or the ash tray so he supposed he had to go about this the creative way. Bittersweet thoughts of Barney cropped to mind as he patted around beneath the steering column until his fingers found a tangle of wires. Clint and Barney had nearly been nabbed the first few attempts they made at hotwiring cars but eventually Barney got the hang of it and they fell into a routine. Clint would be look out, Barney would shimmy the door open with a coat hanger, spark the wires together and they'd be long gone before the cops showed up, all done under two minutes.

Clint yanked at the tangle of wires with a little more force than he had intended to. None of it made any sense to him. Life hadn't been particularly kind to them for a while; he could understand why Barney might be angry over that. What he couldn't understand was why Barney decided to take it out on Clint.

He was so intent on what he was doing that he didn't notice the man who had moved to stand directly in front of the Jeep, hands tucked into his suit pockets. He tapped on the hood of the car and Clint started, his heart hammering in his chest. The man waved.

"Clint Barton?"

Clint hesitated and when he didn't reply, the man continued.

"It's alright, you don't have to confirm it, we already know who you are."

"Who's we?"

"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."

Clint blinked. "That's a mouthful." And sounded very much like a government agency that probably wanted to nab his ass. Just when he thought things couldn't possibly get any worse, he was proven wrong once again.

The man smiled. "We're better known as SHIELD these days."

"And you are?"

"Oh, yes, forgot that little detail didn't I? I'm Special Agent Phil Coulson and I've been sent to recruit you."


	3. Spies Among Us

NATASHA

Natasha paid a visit to the theatre before anyone else arrived in the hopes to regain her bearings. It wasn't simply about revisiting the emotional territory again; she preferred to be the first one on the scene as a way to get herself acquainted with the landscape, find the high and low ground, plan her means of escape if need be. There was always a need for an escape plan, whether it was utilized or not.

She had the back door lock jimmied open with a hair pin in under a minute and stepped inside. Fumbling around for a second, she slid her hands along the wall until she found the light switch and flicked it on.

Light flooded the theatre, plunging the stage into glaring brightness and leaving the seats bathed in shadows. It hadn't changed at all in the seven years since she'd been gone, as if time had stood still in this one spot on the entire planet, preserving the decadent gilded ceiling, the burgundy velvet curtains and the gold and crystal chandelier. It was almost eerie when the place was empty though. During a show, the hum of the expectant crowd made her blood sing in her veins with excitement but now it felt more like a giant mouth, waiting to swallow her whole.

Natasha shrugged out of her jacket, draped it over her arm and slowly made her way to the middle of the stage, the soft _click-click_ of her heels amplified in the cave-like silence of the theatre. Once more she stood center stage, Natasha Romanoff, world renowned ballerina….

Her gaze drifted over the seats that faded into the darkness and she could almost see him, the mere whisper of a specter sitting in his usual spot, row 13, seat 1. He used to claim that it gave him the perfect vantage point when she danced on stage, where she could look out and instantly spot him, smiling that devilishly handsome grin just for her. He was always in the audience for her and this was the first time that she stood on the stage without him.

"I miss you, Alexei," she sighed.

The faint whisper of a footstep caught her attention and her body went rigid. Someone was here with her…

"It suits you," came a deep, masculine voice.

She recognized that thick German accent and the tall, broad-shouldered figure walking down the left aisle towards her.

"Strucker," she said with a nod.

"Romanoff," he replied as he settled into a seat three rows away. "You were always born to be center stage. I see that hasn't changed."

"What are you doing here?"

He spread his large hands and shrugged. "Tarasova assigned me as your handler."

"I thought you didn't do field work anymore. Too busy climbing your way up the chain of command."

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his heavy dark coat and stretched his legs into the aisle. "I seem to have reached an impasse that's lasted a few years. Chairman Tarasova and I have some differing ideas on how KGB operations should be dealt with."

"So she's put you someplace where you can't cause trouble."

Strucker chuckled and shook his head. "Romanoff," he said in a chiding tone. "You should know by now, I can cause trouble no matter where I am."

"Just don't get me tangled up in it," she muttered. Strucker had a reputation for not following rules, doing whatever the hell he wanted to and it had cost him dearly. He could easily have been one of the head operators of the KGB but because he didn't keep himself in check, he remained a handler, directing agents to do the dirty work but never having any real influence in the committee's decisions or negotiations. She'd been partnered with him a handful of times before so she didn't need to waste any time getting to know his work ethic – act first, attempt to sweet talk his way out of it later. She'd have to watch her back twice as hard on this one.

"I need to know where you stand then," Strucker said. When Natasha frowned at him, he gave a vague wave of his hand. "To not get you tangled up in things, as you put it."

"I don't understand."

"Did Tarasova not tell you?" he feigned innocence which only aggravated Natasha that much more. She didn't like this, feeling as if she was getting strung along. It was only a heady power trip on his part and nothing made her run out of patience faster than getting manipulated by someone who only wanted to toy with her like a cat with a mangled mouse.

"Spit it out, Strucker, we don't have time for games."

He heaved a sigh and slid deeper into his chair, relishing the power he had over her. "Oksana Bolishinko was your former dance teacher at the Red Room, correct?"

She nodded slowly, a small root of dread worming its way into her gut. She had a nasty feeling she already knew where this was headed…

"And she quit…why?" he asked.

"The secrecy was causing her too much stress. Since she was only in charge of the dance classes and had no interaction with other aspects of the Red Room, her request to leave was granted with minimal disruption to either the KGB or Madame Oksana. I thought you were familiar with this already? I'm sure you've seen my file once or twice."

He made a non-committal hum deep in his throat. "Oh, I have, believe me. What Tarasova failed to inform you of was that Bolishinko is the head director here. She'll be running things."

Natasha considered that for a moment. It only changed the fact that she'd have an in with Madame Oksana. Natasha had been a star pupil on the dance floor during her stay at the Red Room and with Madame Oksana on the job here, she would be granted certain liberties – and advancements up the hierarchy in the troupe – in no time flat. Ultimately, it was to Natasha's advantage that Madame Oksana was head director of the Bolshoi…so why was Strucker warning her about it?

"Why are you telling me all this?" she asked.

"I want to make sure that you understand your loyalties may be tested on this mission. From what I gather, you were fairly close to Bolishinko."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "As close as anyone can get in an espionage training program. I was a student, she was my teacher. I wouldn't exactly say we were friends."

"If you happen to find information that incriminates Bolishinko, links her to HYDRA in any way…well, surely I don't have to tell you that your sense of duty will, of course, force you to carry out your orders as necessary, regardless of what your feelings may be on the matter."

She bristled at the implication of his words. Was he really questioning her loyalty to the KGB? She'd spent almost her entire life training for this job; she'd grown up learning how to turn anything from a hair pin to a shoelace into a deadly weapon. Other girls played with dolls, she memorized methods of assassination, learned how to interrogate, manipulate and intimidate in thirteen different languages and slept with the faces of every dead man, woman and child she had killed on the job – and those she left alive to suffer alone – seared into her dreams every damn night. No one should ever doubt her loyalty.

"There's no question," she said in a dangerously low voice, "where my loyalties lie, Strucker. If there's going to be a problem here, out with it. I don't need it festering while we're working together."

He shrugged. "No, no problem at all. I'm simply saying that there's always room for change, Romanoff. Nothing lasts forever."

She started to argue but the slam of a door somewhere in the building made her stop. Excited chatter drifted from the front of the theatre. The dancers must have started arriving…

"That's my cue," Strucker said as he rose and tugged his coat straight again. "You would do well to think on what I've said, Romanoff. I'll be in touch."

With that, Strucker melted into the shadows again, leaving Natasha on the stage alone, seething. She forced herself to push him out of her mind and focus on the job at hand, on what her next objective would be. In less than a minute, she would be plunged into the dance world again after being away for seven long, eventful years and she had to stay sharp, not just for the highly competitive and physically demanding atmosphere but because Nemirovsky could be a traitor to the KGB and if that was true, she would have ties that Natasha had to sniff out as well. She couldn't afford Strucker's distractions at the moment. She'd chew him out for questioning her loyalty later.

She was still standing there when the first group of dancers came drifting in – four girls, some of them closer to Natasha's age but most of them younger than her by a good ten years or so which made her feel surprisingly…old. Not exactly something she ever considered before but she decided she definitely didn't like the feeling. One girl, tall, lean with cat-green eyes, straight black hair that flowed like water over her thin shoulders stepped forward with a look of pure menace in her gaze.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"I'm waiting for Madame Oksana," Natasha said. She recognized a challenge when she saw one and this girl, whoever she was, exuded an eagerness to stir up a fight at the slightest provocation. As much as Natasha liked a good tussle every now and then – be it witty comebacks or a good sparring match on the mats to get the adrenaline pumping through her veins – she knew when a fight could get dirty fast and this was a prime example of such an instance. However, that didn't mean she would back down…merely stall for a little time.

"You didn't answer my question," the girl shot back. "Madame won't see anyone today, she's too busy."

"I'll be the judge of that, Ekaterina."

Madame Oksana came up behind Ekaterina's group and the other girls instantly straightened a fraction of an inch. Just like the Bolshoi, Madame hadn't changed in years. Her back was still ramrod straight, her silver hair pulled back in a sleek bun at the nape of her neck and pinned with a simple black barrette. She still wore the same long, unadorned black dresses, tied at her narrow waist with a slim silver belt, accentuating the natural gracefulness of her movements as she seemed to glide forward.

She took Natasha's hands and kissed her on first one cheek then the other. "Natasha, it's so good to see you again," she said. "When I heard you were coming and wished to rejoin the ballet…well, I thought I must be dreaming."

Natasha took immense satisfaction from how Ekaterina pouted, put out by Bolishinko's warm welcome and acceptance of her appearance.

"It's no dream, Madame," Natasha said. "I've been away far too long already."

"I couldn't agree more," she said with a small smile. "Your timing is perfect by the way. Our lead ballerina was in an unfortunate accident right outside the theatre last night. She won't be dancing for the rest of the season and I've been faced with the daunting task of replacing her."

Natasha kept her expression carefully neutral as she realized that the "accident" was more than likely no accident but fully intentional, arranged by Tarasova to ensure that a position of authority was conveniently available for Natasha's arrival. She hated to think that she was the cause of years of hard work chucked down the drain for some poor ballerina who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time but she couldn't allow herself to think on it too long. It was one ballerina's career for the fate of her country. There was no contest.

"I'm sure you'll choose well," Natasha said. "You've always had a keen eye."

"And you've always had a smooth tongue," Madame Oksana replied. "I've kept you already, you best get changed and I'll introduce you to the other dancers. Your dressing room has been prepared for you, the first door on the left."

As Natasha walked off the stage, she could practically feel Ekaterina's red hot gaze burning holes in her back. By the time the day was over, she no doubt would have many more enemies stacked up on her list.

Natasha found her dressing room, the first – and most luxurious – one in the hallway backstage. She stepped inside and color exploded everywhere, from the rack bulging with costumes along one wall to the massive mirror lined with a string of pale white lights. To have her own dressing room, especially one this large, meant she would be granted a prominent position in the troupe and she wouldn't have to work her way up from the bottom all over again. Re-establishing the social order though would be harder, especially if the rest of the troupe didn't accept her. She could be given the principal dancer position again, or a soloist, but if the rest of the troupe didn't accept her…she'd have a hard time finding out information in any form when she was shouldered out by the other dancers.

As if in answer to her thoughts, the door to her dressing room flew open so hard that it slammed against the wall and Ekaterina stormed in, jabbing a finger in Natasha's chest.

"You will not replace me," she spat.

Natasha resisted the urge to grab Ekaterina's finger and bend it back until it snapped. Instead, she merely replied, "Pardon?"

"I was next in line to get that lead role and I swear, I will kill you before you take it from me. I saw the way you were all buddied up to Madame Oksana earlier, little teacher's pet."

"That's not up to you. I can't help it if Madame Oksana deems my work more worthy than yours."

"So tell her you don't want the job. You changed your mind."

Natasha raised an eyebrow and stepped closer to Ekaterina until they were mere inches away from each other.

"Like hell I will. It's going to take much more than a temper tantrum and some mild death threats to get me to quit."

Ekaterina made a move to grab Natasha's hair but Natasha saw it coming a mile away. She caught Ekaterina's wrist and twisted it down and outward, putting an unnatural and extremely painful strain on her arm.

"You bitch!" Ekaterina shrieked. "Let me go!"

"No," Natasha replied calmly, rather amused at Ekaterina's indignation. "Threaten me again and you'll suddenly find yourself with a broken arm and you can wave goodbye to that coveted lead role you want so very badly. I've worked just as hard as you and I'm not about to back down because you stomped your little foot and whined about it. If you want that role over me…_work harder_."

"Let. Me. Go." She growled through gritted teeth.

"Are we clear?" Natasha asked, twisting Ekaterina's wrist just a little bit more to make her squirm. She whimpered and stood up on tiptoe.

"Yes! Yes, we're clear."

Natasha released her and Ekaterina took a wary step back. She shot Natasha a dirty look as she rubbed her wrist then turned and fled the dressing room. Natasha wasn't entirely certain the death threat was legitimate or not but she would probably have to look into it at least. Ignoring a death threat in her job, even the ones spouted by sulky little brats like Ekaterina, wasn't a good idea.

After changing into her tights, slippers, leotard and skirt, she returned to the stage and met the rest of the dancers, close to thirty in all. Nemirovsky had arrived while she was in the dressing room but judging by the way she was sidled up to Ekaterina, it seemed as if she wouldn't be making too much headway with her any time soon.

Madame Oksana stood behind Natasha and placed her hands on her shoulders. "Ladies, gentlemen, as you all know, Adelina suffered an accident last night. Nothing too serious apart from a few bruises and a broken collarbone. Sadly, she showed such promise and we hate to see her experience such a misfortune just when the premiere is less than four months away. I'm certain you've all been debating amongst yourselves who will replace Adelina."

A murmur of agreement swept through the group and some of the dancers turned accusatory gazes on Natasha, others to disappointment, still others remained curious.

"It's time to put the gossip to rest," Madame Oksana continued. "I've chosen who will resume the lead role and we're very lucky to have her join us. Some of you may already be familiar with Natasha Romanoff and her years here at the Bolshoi. She's decided to come out of retirement and rejoin our troupe once again. I trust you will welcome her and ensure she enjoys her stay here. We are extremely grateful that she has chosen to grace us with her presence again." She finished that last statement with a pointed look in Ekaterina's direction.

With that, dance practice started up with all its chaos of proper timing, synchronization, blood, sweat and tears. Most of the dancers seemed to take Madame Oksana's introduction well and welcomed her, chatting with her in between scenes or sharing small, shy smiles. Others kept their distance which also suited her just fine. No one would question her position here if they feared and respected her.

A new problem quickly came to mind though, annoyingly persistent in demanding her attention. By the time Madame Oksana called for a break five hours later, Natasha knew her feet were bleeding. Being away from dance for seven years had made her calloused feet soften and that would put her at a painful disadvantage for a while. At one time, she would have little to no problem dancing for hours but now it proved to be a challenge simply to walk to her dressing room without limping. Any sign of weakness would bring Ekaterina down on her head like a shark after the smell of blood in the water.

When she reached the blessed solitude of her dressing room, she fairly crumpled on the spot after closing the door. As she eased her slippers off her feet, her worries were confirmed. Blisters had formed on her toes and heels, rubbed raw and bleeding. She cleaned herself up as best as she could and found some gauze in one of the drawers of her dressing table. She'd been through worse, a few blisters wouldn't slow her down especially not after what she'd already established in finally meeting Nemirovsky.

After practice was over, Natasha waited outside across the street from the Bolshoi, tucked into the back door of a pub. She watched as the dancers spilled out onto the street, most of them in laughing, chattering groups, huddled against the biting April wind. Others came out on their own, hurrying to a warm waiting car.

When Nemirovsky finally came out almost an hour after practice was over, Natasha had her camera ready as a car pulled up along the curb and a young man, maybe late twenties, jumped out and popped the door open for her. He gave her a quick kiss and she beamed. _Hello boyfriend_, Natasha thought as she snapped pictures one after the other in rapid succession while he climbed back in the car. She managed to sneak in a few partial shots of the license plate before the car was lost in a surge of traffic.

Natasha found Ivan with his limo waiting for her two blocks away, as promised and she practically crawled into the back seat, immediately kicking off her heels.

"Rough day?" Ivan asked.

"Like you wouldn't believe," she replied. "Ballerinas are more frightening than most cold blooded assassins."

"So I take it you fit right in."

"Making fun at my expense might not be in your best interests then," she teased back.

He nodded and chuckled. "Good point. I wish to live a little longer if at all possible and avoid accidentally aggravating any ballerinas who might have murderous tendencies."

"All ballerinas have murderous tendencies; you should know that by now."

Ivan pulled up to the apartment and when he opened her door and took her hand, she wobbled a little as her feet flared with pain again. She gripped his hand a little tighter than she meant to and heard him make the tiniest strangled noise in his throat.

"Sorry," she whispered, loosening her grip.

"No trouble Miss Romanoff," he said with a concerned glint in his eye. He could see she was in pain but he could do nothing to help her and it killed him, watching her suffer like this.

As soon as she was in her apartment and the door was shut, all she wanted was to soak her feet for a few hours but she knew she couldn't do that, not yet. She downloaded the pictures and called Strucker.

"Romanoff, calling so soon," he said. "I take it you missed my company then."

"I need an identification," she said, ignoring his sarcasm. "Nemirovsky's boyfriend met her outside the Bolshoi today. Pictures coming your way."

A few moments of silence passed as she heard computer keys tapping away furiously then Strucker spoke again.

"Looks like you've managed to hook a big fish," he said. "Boyfriend's name is Arthur Vanko, nephew to Anton Vanko, nuclear weapons specialist."

"Which sounds promising in a very bad way."

"Anton is reportedly underground working on a highly specialized weapon and rumor has it, he's selling out to the Americans. We've been hunting him for months with no luck, until now."

"So chances are Nemirovsky really is mixed up with this in some way." And that could only mean that this wasn't a wild goose chase and she'd have to stay at the Bolshoi for longer than she wanted to.

"More than likely," he agreed. "Tread carefully from here on out. We can't afford to lose the Vankos or Nemirovsky at this point. We need that weapon, Romanoff."

Natasha hung up and retreated to the sanctuary of the bathroom to soak her poor, aching feet. She didn't realize how tightly she'd been holding onto the possibility that the lead that brought here wouldn't amount to anything in the end. Instead, it tangled her up in a web that wasn't going to let her go for a good long while, not until she could find out more about where Vanko was hiding and stop the Americans from getting their hands on that weapon.


	4. Second Chances

**A/N: THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE COMMENTS AND REVIEWS! I can't tell you how much I appreciate your lovely comments. I grin for the rest of the day and my cheeks hurt and it's wonderful. Please keep commenting! It helps keep me motivated to keep writing and updating ^_^ Enjoy, my lovelies!**

CLINT

"Come again?" Clint said.

"I'm here to recruit you," Coulson repeated.

"Yeah, that's what I thought I heard." Clint's gaze flicked down to where his hands were buried in a tangle of wires. He'd been caught stealing someone else's car and the government wanted to recruit him? Yeah. Right. Like he was stupid enough to fall for that trick.

"And by 'recruit' you really mean arrest, is that it?"

Coulson chuckled. "I'll admit the situation looks less than stellar on your part but that's not what we're interested in. We know about your history, Mr. Barton and we're willing to extend a blanket pardon. No matter what you've done in the past, we don't care. We'll make it all go away."

Now that sure as hell sounded way too good to be true. In Clint's experience, when an offer dripping with honey like this was placed on the table it only meant there were some nasty little barbs lurking beneath the surface somewhere – usually the fine print – ready to sink deep into his skin, hook him good and yank him under.

"And if I say no thanks?" Clint said. "Because face it, that offer is too damn good."

"Well," Coulson said, drawing the word out and nodding slowly. "I hate to say it but if you refuse, we can't help you. Your record remains and those men over there…" Coulson gestured to Jacques and a few other performers standing around one of the trucks parked next to the gas station. "Those men will receive an anonymous tip concerning your whereabouts that I'm sure they'll be very eager to hear."

"That's not much of a choice," Clint said. As he spoke, his hand automatically strayed to his bow and arrows on the seat next to him, making sure to keep his movements subtle so Coulson wouldn't get tipped off.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Mr. Barton," Coulson said, his expression never changing from a polite, genial smile.

"Do what exactly?"

A bright red spot appeared on his chest in answer to his question, dancing around until it settled firmly dead center on his heart. Not a waver or a tremble. Solid.

"There's another one on the back of your head," Coulson said. "Though I'd rather not employ them."

"You're very persuasive," Clint said.

Coulson beamed. "Thank you."

"Okay so what happens now?" Clint asked. "Obviously I'm not going to refuse your offer, no matter how much I might want to."

Coulson stepped forward and tossed a black scrap of cloth into Clint's lap. "For starters, I'd greatly appreciate it if you wore this."

Clint picked up the fabric and gave it a shake only to find out it was a hood. This was going south real fast…

"You're kidding," he said, his voice and expression deadpan with disbelief.

"For safety purposes," Coulson replied. "You understand."

"I can't decide if my day just got better or worse," Clint sighed.

"There's still time to change your mind," Coulson put in with a much too chipper tone. "Your carnie friends would be thrilled to see you again, I'm sure."

Clint groaned as he pulled the hood over his head. "All right, all right, I get the picture."

The tight weave of the fabric didn't allow much more than the occasional pinprick of light to seep in. But the smell made his stomach roil, as if the tangy overpowering lemon scented soap could mask the stench of human sweat and fear.

Coulson's footsteps came closer and Clint heard the click of the door open. He stiffened when Coulson took his elbow and guided him out of the car and the cold metal of handcuffs clicked around his wrists. His bow and arrows were still left on the seat next to him and he felt exposed, set adrift without them in hand but he hesitated to grab them. The image of that threatening little red dot hovering so steadily over his heart moments ago remained burned into his mind. Still, he hated the idea of leaving them behind and he wondered how exactly he could ask that his weapons come with him when he was wearing a damn hood over his head and getting hauled off by a government agent…

As if reading his thoughts, Coulson said, "Not to worry, your bow and arrows will be safely guarded. Again, we don't mean you any harm."

"Says the man who just threatened my life with multiple snipers," Clint replied.

"Well it all depends on you really. Cooperation is key of course."

He could almost hear that genial smile in Coulson's voice. It never seemed to go away which was starting to get a little irritating. He heard another car door click and for a brief moment, he thought he might get stuffed into a trunk…until he felt the stiff leather seats beneath him and caught a whiff of that synthetic new car smell.

"One more thing," Coulson said.

Clint turned towards the sound of Coulson's voice but before he could even think about reacting, a small sting like a bee jabbed him in the arm and he didn't remember much of anything after that.

When Clint awoke, he half expected to be strapped to a chair, gagged with some nasty old rag in an abandoned warehouse with blood on the floor and maybe a few missing fingers…

Instead, he found himself in somebody's office on their couch with a pillow tucked under his head. The office was all steel, chrome and black and didn't bear any signs of personalization or clues as to his whereabouts. Slowly, he pushed himself off the couch, making sure he didn't topple over when the room wavered and spun thanks to the drugs Coulson had knocked him out with, damn him.

He started to inch his way towards the door, using the wall for support in what had to be the slowest escape in the course of history but the door opened before he could get there and Coulson stepped in.

"Ah, you're up," he said.

"We mean you no harm, my ass," Clint grumbled.

Coulson had the decency to look a little sheepish and held out a bottle of water. "Sorry about the drugs. We couldn't run the risk of you remembering where our facility is, not until we know that you're committed to our division and wouldn't give us away."

Clint eyed the bottle, wary. "How do I know you won't drug me again?"

Coulson shrugged. "Because you're already here and we have no reason to. But I don't blame you, I wouldn't take the offer either."

"So is this where you torture your victims or something?" Clint asked with a vague wave around the office.

Coulson moved to sit behind the desk and gestured for Clint to take the chair opposite him. "Not exactly. Please, sit down. It'll be a little while before you're a hundred percent again and we have some things to go over."

"Like what?"

"SHIELD. Why we recruited you in the first place."

"Yeah I'm still wondering about that part."

Clint edged over to the chair and when he sat down he noticed a set of cards on display safely encased in a small block of glass, tucked next to the chrome lamp. He leaned forward to get a better look but upon closer inspection, they still didn't fit with the rest of the decor.

"Are those…?"

Coulson's smile transformed to a full on beaming grin, like a little boy in a candy shop. "Captain America. Vintage."

"No way."

"Cost a fortune but well worth it. I had this ridiculous fantasy for the longest time when I was growing up that I'd meet him in person, get an autograph or something."

"I'd sell my soul to get my hands on a set like that. My brother and I…" Clint's voice trailed off at the sudden reminder of Barney who sprang to mind so easily and naturally. Now, those memories were tainted, marred by the ugly way he had parted with Barney and how he had actually stabbed his own brother in the back with an arrow.

He shook himself from his thoughts and glanced up. "My brother, Barney, he was hurt when I left. Do you know if he's all right?"

Coulson's expression took on a more serious tone and he folded his hands on the desk in front of him. "Yes, your brother is fine. No vital organs were hit from what I'm told and there will barely be a mark."

Clint knew that was supposed to ease his concerns but it didn't. He wanted to see his brother himself, make sure he was okay. Damn it, he wanted to forget all of this ever happened in the first place. There shouldn't be any mark on Barney's body at all because of Clint.

Coulson cleared his throat and Clint focused on him again.

"Let's get to the business part then," Coulson said. He picked up a bulging folder from his desk and slid it over. "We've been keeping tabs on you for a while. You have an impressive record. Theft. Credit card fraud. Forgery. Vandalism."

Clint didn't pick up the file. He wasn't the least bit proud of most of those things and he'd only done them out of necessity because Clint and Barney couldn't make ends meet, because they hadn't eaten in days and the hunger was driving them crazy. Nearly all of those crimes he'd committed were out of desperation to not get sent back to that hellhole of an orphanage…

"I'm well aware of what I've done," he growled. "But you promised that you'd make it go away."

"I did and my offer still stands. That record tells us that you are a man of ingenuity and inventiveness. You think fast on your feet and you pick up things quickly and easily. We could use that kind of skill set."

"Doing what exactly? I know, I know, you said you were part of some…division, I'm not even going to try and pronounce it all."

"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."

"Yeah, that."

"We specialize in security, protection of…well, you could call it international affairs."

"So in other words I'd essentially be a mall cop? No thanks."

Coulson stifled a laugh. "Not quite. You would be doing undercover missions, handling sensitive information, engaging in foreign affairs, things like that."

"Sounds complicated."

Coulson sighed and leaned closer, resting his elbows on the desk. "Basically, Mr. Barton, we'd like to recruit you because we see potential and because we believe you would do more good on a job like this rather than sitting in jail on attempted manslaughter."

Clint's gaze narrowed slightly. "You really don't have to keep bringing that up."

"I know."

"And if you were following me so closely, you'd know I wouldn't go to jail. Barney and my – his – friends would have me killed."

"I know that too but I thought it best not to repeatedly mention it."

"Gee, thanks."

"You're welcome."

"I take it I don't get much time to think about it?"

"You can think about it for as long as you need to, although you have to understand it may be necessary to take a few of the same precautions that we made with you earlier. Not all of them, but some."

"What a lovely thought," Clint sighed.

Coulson inched even closer, his usually friendly tone vanished. "Mr. Barton, you must realize and take into consideration that this commitment requires years to follow through and it encompasses highly dangerous situations that can end in less than savory circumstances. Despite the adverse first impression that SHIELD has made on you in order to get you here, this decision," Coulson tapped Clint's file. "This is entirely up to you. We cannot force you into this, nor do we want to. This job takes dedication and anyone who signs up for it must be ready to apply themselves, heart, mind, body and soul."

Clint blinked in surprise at Coulson's speech. "This is pretty serious stuff then."

"Yes it is," Coulson nodded then moved to the door. "Come with me, I'll show you around and answer any questions you might have that will help you make your decision."

"I thought the whole point of pumping me full of happy pills was to keep me from seeing things I wasn't supposed to?

"Technically yes, but that was only to get you here. Now that you're inside, a tour of the facility won't do any harm. But we'll keep any sensitive information under wraps for now. Trust me, Mr. Barton, you won't see anything we don't want you to."

"I think that's the first thing I've believed out of this whole thing so far."

As soon as Clint followed Coulson out of the office, he was met with a buzz of activity. A long corridor opened up, filled with people, some training in full tactical gear, others were sparring in hand-to-hand combat with lightning speed and precision. The floor lurched beneath Clint's feet and he turned to ask Coulson about it when the words died in his throat at the sight of a large window comprising the opposite end of the corridor.

"We're in…we're…what?"

"We're on a helicarrier," Coulson explained. "It's one of the main headquarters for SHIELD."

"Of…course it is. What's wrong with a good ol' brick and mortar buildings like all the other government groupies have?"

"We do have a few of those too," Coulson replied over his shoulder. "But this allows us a little more…freedom. Mobility."

Clint passed a table with a 3D miniature of some city that looked like it was straight out of a sci-fi movie, displayed in glowing pale blue light hovering over a table. A handful of people congregated around it and he could have sworn he picked out "alien" and "asgard."

He frowned, confused. "Ass guard?"

Coulson nearly choked. "Asgard," he corrected. "It's a place. A place very far from here."

"Will I see it?"

"We're still researching it at the moment, establishing contact, that sort of thing. But Asgard will not be your main objective here, at least not at first."

"What would be my objective? Hypothetically speaking of course. You know, if I took the job. Unless that's classified."

"Most of it is but what I can tell you, hypothetically, is that we'd like to place you outside the U.S. for a while, let things with your brother cool down a bit."

"Probably best," Clint agreed quietly, sobered by the mention of Barney.

Coulson led him to a room different from his office; a shooting range, targets lined up along one end, people tucked into separated cubicles on the other end of the field. Some used guns – everything from hand guns to machine guns – others used knives with a deadly accuracy that put most of the carnival workers to shame.

And then there were the bows and Clint stopped dead in his tracks. A dozen bows of varying shapes and sizes were tucked snugly into a rack.

"You can try any you like," Coulson said.

Clint's eyebrows shot up. "You're kidding. You'd actually…let me? Here?"

"Consider it an act of trust."

Clint sidled up to the rack and slid an arrow out, long, sleek and shiny silver…but the arrowhead was encased in about an inch of plastic. He pointed the arrow at Coulson.

"Trust, huh?"

"Precautions," Coulson replied. "One of our most experienced agents almost lost a finger to one of those last week."

Clint made a non-committal hum. He hadn't decided if Coulson was stringing him along with easy lies or if he was actually telling the truth and it simply came across as outlandish and unbelievable. Maybe a little of both.

He ran his fingers along the curve of each bow, silky smooth and elegant. More than half of them were compact bows but he recognized one or two classic longbow shapes which he was more familiar with.

Clint opted for one at the end, a crossbow, something he'd always wanted to try but never had the chance to before now. He slid a bolt into place, notched it – which required more strength than he was prepared for – and took aim at the bull's eye at the opposite end of the firing range. When he let the bolt fly, it was smooth as butter, sliding free with nothing more than a whisper and landing deep in the center of the target.

"I'm impressed," he admitted, setting the crossbow back on its rack. "But I know a bribe when I see one. Before I make any kind of decision, I want to know exactly what I'm getting into and why the hell I would need twelve different kinds of bows in the first place."

"Fair enough," Coulson nodded. "Right this way."

Coulson took Clint away from the firing range into what looked like a conference room with a long glossy table in the middle. He flicked off the light, plunging the room into a blanket of darkness then, before Clint could protest, Coulson left and shut the door behind him.

"What the…hey!"

As if in answer to his protests, a soft glow began to emanate from the table and a tall, dark man stepped out of the shadows, a black patch over one eye and a leather trench coat spanning his broad shoulders.

"Shout all you want," he said as he placed his hands on the edge of the table and leaned over it. "He ain't comin' back until we're done here."

"That sounds…not good. And you are?"

"Nick Fury. I'm the guy who sent Coulson to recruit you."

"Boy do I have questions for you, buddy."

Fury smirked and tapped the table, sending a series of pictures to slide across the surface. "I'm sure you do. Better get to it. Madipoor, Singapore."

A picture of a city popped into the center of the table, streets crammed with people, brightly colored booths and shops lining one side of the street while stern steel skyscrapers loomed in the distance.

"A prominent network," Fury continued, "of spies, assassins and cutthroats known as the Hand set down roots there a few years back, terrorizing the people, oppressing them, beating them, killing them."

Fury set a series of photos gliding out. A mother clutched one young child tight while another lay dead at her feet. A father stood to defend his daughter only to get cut down. Children huddled in fear, tears streaming down their dirt-stained faces. And the one thing all the pictures had in common were figures clad in red, carrying samurai swords that dripped with blood.

"Why?" Clint asked. "Didn't anyone stop them?"

Fury shook his head. "They had connections in high places throughout Asia and most local law enforcement was either already corrupted by the Hand or they didn't dare interfere on pain of death. As to the why…well, that would be because of this."

Another picture loomed large on the screen, overshadowing all the others: a logo of what looked like a giant skull with octopus legs.

"HYDRA," Fury said. "They've been carving out a name for themselves for a while. At the time, we weren't aware that the Hand was an extension of HYDRA but we quickly found out the hard way. They killed anyone who stood in the way of HYDRA, who didn't swear fealty. This part of the city, Lowtown as the locals called it, this was an example. Anyone who didn't swear complete loyalty to HYDRA or hindered their progress in any way, this," Fury pointed at the table full of pictures. "This is what would happen to them. Madripoor is now solely operated by HYDRA and we're still fighting to free those under their control."

Clint stared at the table piled with file after file, tragedy after tragedy.

"I haven't even committed yet and you're telling me all this? Isn't it classified?"

Fury shrugged. "Other recruits have had similar questions. Besides, even if you decided not to join us, no one would believe what you've seen today. To the outside world, we're yet another government agency with a long ass name no one can remember much less pronounce and always brings up more questions than answers so they're satisfied with that and they don't dig any deeper."

Several long moments of silence passed as they both stared at the table.

"You know I'm going to say yes, don't you?" Clint said quietly.

"I've had my suspicions," Fury replied. "Rememeber, we've had our eye on you for a while, we know you've wanted a clean break, a second chance. And here it is. You're a smart man, good instincts, and I believe you realize this is an opportunity that not many people get."

Clint nodded but said nothing. As much as he didn't really enjoy admitting it, Fury was right. This offer wouldn't come his way again. How many times had he dreamed of a fresh start? Now that the chance to make that dream a reality had finally come his way, he would never forgive himself if he let it go.

"Where do I sign up?" he said.

Three months.

Fury had promised to put him on the fast track through training – three months instead of the usual twelve to twenty-four – and Clint thought that meant it would be a little easier, a lighter load maybe.

He had never been more wrong in his entire life.

Martial arts, weapons training and interrogation methods left him more bruised and sore than his acrobatic training at the circus.

Poisons, neutralizers, toxins, and chemistry 101 which made about as much sense as reading a foreign language since high school wasn't exactly a big priority in the circus.

Encryption, surveillance techniques, cyber espionage, mind numbing and nap inducing SHIELD protocol…

It was boot camp, that's what it was.

Merciless, hardcore, sweat until you bleed, boot camp. He'd considered the military once or twice when he was younger; it held some sort of appeal. The drills, the comfort of routine, the comradery of fellow soldiers. Then he found the circus and he got some of that desired routine, at least with the shows, and he liked it, but he also enjoyed his freedoms and being able to take off for a few hours on his own or with Barney. There was none of that during training now. There wasn't even time to think about doing something else, let alone actually following the idea through to action. But this is what he signed up for…sort of. He didn't regret it though, not really. It kept his mind off of Barney and the rare times that he found himself pining for the circus, a nice solid session of getting the shit beat out of him on the sparring mats solved that homesickness real quick. He'd much rather focus on the pain of his body rather the pain of being separated from his brother.

Clint bunked with a handful of other recruits and every night, he fell asleep before his head hit the pillow, his body sore from far too much training all at once and he was pretty sure his brain was sore too from stuffing so much information in there. He wasn't even sure that any of it would stick but Coulson seemed optimistic, of course. The bastard. Clint doubted Coulson ever had a shade less than the highest level of optimism anyone could humanly obtain.

At lunch in the cafeteria one day, Clint was practically dozing into his lukewarm and partially gelled mac 'n' cheese when Coulson walked by his table and nudged him.

"Time to meet your handler," he chirped. "Your training is almost over and after that, you'll be set on your first mission."

"Oh god," Clint groaned. "Don't I get a vacation or something?"

"Nope, come on, up and at 'em."

Grumbling, Clint followed along to the sparring mats. One female agent lingered despite everyone else out at lunch. She whaled on a practice dummy with two metal batons – battle staves. Clint had learned the hard way those staves hurt like hell when he didn't block a blow in time and got whacked. The weapons were definitely not his strong suit and he wasn't looking forward to the idea of sparring with them again. He'd much rather go back to his congealed mac 'n' cheese.

The woman noticed their approach, paused and turned…and Clint perked up a little. Blond, tall, lean and athletic, she was pretty easy on the eyes, he had to admit. She'd kick his ass with those staves but that might be a chance worth taking.

Coulson began the proper introductions. "Clint Barton, this is your new handler and guide, Bobbi Morse."

Bobbi smiled and nodded. "Hey, I've heard a lot about you."

"All good things I hope," Clint replied.

Bobbi raised an eyebrow, amused. "Not exactly."

Clint stiffened and he shot Coulson a look. "Dude," he whispered. "What happened to 'clean slate'?"

"She has to know, she's your handler. You could be working under dangerous conditions. Besides, all I told her was that you sucked at staves."

With that, Coulson left, humming triumphantly. Bobbi laughed and hooked her arm through Clint's elbow.

"So, skeletons in the closet, huh?"

"I feel we may have started on the wrong foot here."

"Must be something pretty juicy to make a guy like you get all flustered the way you did just now."

"What!? I did not."

"Hell yeah you did, but I won't push," she said, pulling back. She tossed him a set of staves and he caught them in one hand.

"You work with me," she said. "You practice with me. Get your ass on the mat, Barton, let's go."

This was it. Today, Clint would be assigned his first mission and he felt just as nervous as the day he first stepped on the stage as a rookie acrobat at the circus. At least he skipped the puking part this time.

When he stepped into Coulson's office, Bobbi was already there. She nudged the chair out next to her with the toe of her boot in a silent offer to take a seat. After training nearly every waking hour together for a week, they'd settled into a fairly regular routine. And then Clint did something that he thought may have been a little stupid…he asked her out.

It was a risky move and after the words had spilled from his mouth and he couldn't take them back, of course he realized what an idiot he had been. He put their professional relationship in jeopardy just to go for lunch and he berated himself for it. This was supposed to be his clean slate and he was already mucking it all up.

But Bobbi had refused him with an easy smile and a little laugh and then she continued to kick his ass in training and she seemed to enjoy it just a little bit too much. She didn't explain why she said no, just laughed and shook her head with that teasing glint in her eye that drove Clint crazy in the best possible way. He liked a challenge, he liked a little chase. Thank god she wasn't mad at him and it didn't change anything between them.

"Mr. Barton," Coulson nodded as Clint took a seat. "Ready for your first mission?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," he replied. "Where are you sending me?"

"Russia," Coulson said.

Clint hesitated as images of icy, snow laden streets blurred in his mind. He'd envisioned someplace considerably warmer for his first mission, someplace like, oh, the Virgin Islands. Tahiti would have been nice. But he was the rookie. Of course he'd be sent to the frozen wasteland for his first trip out of the gate. He shouldn't complain though. None of his carnie friends would follow him there.

"Okaaaay," Clint said, drawing the word as if he could make himself believe what he was saying.

"Bobbi will be going with you," Coulson said. "The jet will drop you both off in Budapest where Bobbi will keep tabs on your progress and you'll continue on to Russia."

"Why does Bobbi have to stay in Budapest?" Clint asked.

Coulson exchanged a brief, uncertain glance with Bobbi and Clint jumped on it.

"What?" he said. "That look you two just did. What was that for?"

"I can't go into Russia right now," Bobbi explained. "No SHIELD agent can, it's part of a security protocol enforced by the KGB. We're not exactly on the best of terms right now."

"Whoa, hey, hold up, what does that make me? I just went through training," Clint pointed out. "I'm an agent too. Does that mean I'm going to get nabbed the second I cross the border into Russia?"

"No," Coulson said. "Technically, you haven't fully completed your training and you're not registered with SHIELD. We're keeping you under the radar."

That made Clint bristle. After all the crap he'd been through for the past three months, he wasn't a fully registered agent yet? He suddenly had the sneaking suspicion that he was getting short-changed and he didn't like it one little bit.

Coulson's gaze flicked over Clint's face, gauging the level of frustration rising in his expression, then continued on. It wasn't going to get much easier from here on out, might as well get it over with.

"We believe a HYDRA agent is looking to gain access to this man," Coulson said as he placed a picture on the desk of an older man with a mustache and stooped shoulders. "Professor Anton Vanko. He's working on nuclear weapon blueprints for us and HYDRA wants it. We can't let them have it, Mr. Barton. We'll have another Madripoor on our hands only ten times worse and it will spread worldwide."

Clint nodded, sobered by the reality of how serious things were getting real fast. "This seems way too deep for a newb here, guys."

"We've explored other options, believe me, Mr. Barton. We know it's risky but our options are extremely limited and by that we mean our options are you. HYDRA has put us at odds with the KGB, we can't get into Russia because of it and we will work our hardest to get it cleared up as soon as possible and send in backup agents for you at the first opportunity available."

Clint took a breath and let it out. "I did sign up for this, I guess. So do I try to talk to this Vanko or be his bodyguard or what?"

"At some point, you will need to protect him, yes. Vanko recently contacted us and we secured a deal with him over the blueprints. He's currently in hiding from the KGB and HYDRA who are both after him for those weapon plans. As soon as we received word from him, we've been trying to get into Russia without endangering our agents. That's when we decided to employ you. We'd been considering your case for a while, it was just a matter of when. Turns out that time is now."

"It's always nice to be needed," Clint said. "Though I'd prefer it wasn't in the middle of a war over nuclear weapons."

"At this point, your mission will be to find who the HYDRA agent is and take him – or her – down," Coulson said. "We should be hearing from Vanko soon and when that happens, we will need you to get him out of the country safely along with the blueprints. The cards are stacked against us in this department. We can't send more agents in with you at the moment thanks to the ban put in place by the KGB. Both HYDRA and the KGB are organizations that have been years in the making and they turn out highly skilled agents like clockwork."

"In other words, you're sending a rookie into a group of professionals on his own," Clint said, "and hoping everything works out for the best."

"That's about the gist of it, yes."

"This just keeps getting better and better," Clint sighed. "Any idea where I'll be looking for this HYDRA agent? I mean, Russia's a big place, I've got to start somewhere."

Coulson hesitated for a fraction of a second. "The Russian ballet at the Bolshoi Theater in Moscow."

Clint did a double-take. "I am not wearing tights, dude. There was nothing in my training for that."

"No, you won't be in the ballet, you'll be a stage hand. We thought it the best position for you to naturally slip into, considering your background with the circus."

Clint let out a relieved breath that he didn't even realize he'd been holding. "I can work with that. Anything else? Do I get weapons at least?"

Coulson nodded. "You'll be issued a firearm and your bow and arrows will be waiting for you at your living arrangements in Russia."

"My what?"

"Your transportation, living arrangements and any other expenses will be covered by SHIELD, discreetly of course, so your cover won't be blown."

"Well at least the job comes with some perks," Clint said.

With that, Coulson rose and extended his hand over the desk and Clint sealed his first mission with a firm handshake not as Clint Barton, man on the run but Clint Barton, agent of SHIELD. And it felt so damn good. A second chance.

Even if it might get him killed.


	5. The American

**NATASHA**

Three months.

Three long, grueling, frustrating months Natasha had been at the Bolshoi and she was still as empty handed as day one. She never had a dry spell this long, unless she was missing something, but there were no other angles to cover. It seemed to have come down to a waiting game, waiting and watching for someone, anyone, to mess up.

Following Nemirovsky proved to be nothing more than a wild goose chase. Natasha had spread the word through a few of her contacts around Moscow that she needed favors and information but Nemirovsky had come out fairly clean – a little hiccup with drugs in her early teens was hardly much to raise an eyebrow at. For all intents and purposes, Nemirovsky was just a regular hard working ballerina who happened to be dating the nephew of a traitor to Russia.

And the nephew, she'd looked into him too but he was ridiculously squeaky clean. Arthur Vanko, as it turned out, was so soft-spoken and easy going that Nemirovsky regularly walked all over him. Definitely not the type to be entrenched in the nuclear weapons business but Natasha kept an eye on him all the same, just in case. She was, after all, an expert on "appearances can be deceiving."

The mission was almost becoming somewhat monotonous and boring…and then the American showed up.

He called himself Henry Jones which was a bald-faced lie. Natasha had to give him credit though, he hid it fairly well. No one else noticed how he hesitated for a fraction of a section and his tone rose in pitch at the end of his name, posed almost like a question as if he didn't believe it himself. That meant it was a new alias and he hadn't had time to get used to it yet which worked very well in her favor. A newbie would be easy to find.

When Natasha had first caught a glimpse of the American, walking so confidently into the theatre and joining the work crew, she ignored the stab of heartache deep in her chest and quickly buried it, switching off her emotions and focusing on snatching up every detail she could about him. The dark leather jacket, the way his cap sat slightly tilted to the side, suggesting confidence, the way he moved, smooth and easy, like a dancer or an athlete. As long as she kept analyzing him, that nagging little voice at the back of her mind would remain silent and she'd make it stay that way at all costs.

Natasha had made herself well acquainted with every dirty detail she could scrounge up on every person associated with the theatre, staff, dancers, financial contributors. Everyone. The new guy, she did not know, and it made her uneasy.

Once rehearsal was over, she didn't bother changing, just stripped off her slippers, tugged on her heels and coat as she was walking out the back door, heading straight for Ivan's limo. From of the corner of her eye, she saw the American slip out after her, following at a discreet distance behind but gaining fast the further away from the theatre she got. Her shoulders went rigid, her body tense and prepared for combat. She reached the limo at the exact same time that the American clamped a hand on her arm.

Natasha whipped around, caught his wrist and twisted it behind his back. She grabbed a fistful of his coat and shoved him face-first against the limo door, pressing his cheek against the surface of the car.

"Hey! Wait, whoa," he protested. "Jeez, Princess, take it easy."

"Why are you following me?" she hissed.

"Well, if you'd just let me go, I'll explain…"

Natasha shoved him harder against the car and he grunted in pain.

"Ow, hey, come on, I was sent to get you by one of the other dancers, I swear."

She squinted at him in suspicion. "By whom?"

He spread his hands against the car in a helpless gesture. "I don't…I don't know. The pretty one."

Natasha took a deep breath to calm her rising frustration at the American's sarcasm. "Dark hair? Tall? Short? Young? Describe her."

"Uh…really young, like…I don't know, seventeen? Eighteen? Blonde, itty bitty little thing."

"Mila," Natasha said. Mila was the youngest on the dance crew at sixteen and the schedule was rough on her, sometimes she didn't take the pressure all that well. She was a prodigy when it came to dancing, but the rest of it? The politics, the pressure, the cliques…Mila didn't have the experience to toughen her up like the other dancers did. "Why did she send you?"

"Well, technically…okay so she didn't exactly send me…"

Natasha gave his wrist a sharp twist, gritting her teeth. "Lying only gets you pain, American."

"I'm not lying! She didn't send me, I volunteered. I was supposed to be checking all the dressing rooms for rats, you know, 'cause I'm the new guy and that's the fun jobs new guys get so yeah, I went in there and she was just…crying. I didn't know what to do and I saw you earlier talking to her so I followed you. I swear, that's the truth. Please just…don't hurt me anymore?"

Natasha released him and the American took a wary step back, rubbing his wrist.

"You've got one hell of an iron grip for a ballerina, Princess," he said.

Natasha barely managed to keep from rolling her eyes. "Don't call me that," she said, turning to walk back to the theatre and find Mila.

The American, persistent bastard that he was, followed her. Again. "So if I can't call you Princess, what can I call you?"

"Miss Romanoff," she said over her shoulder.

She found Mila in her dressing room as the American had said which sent a red hot spike of irritation through her. She didn't realize how badly she had wanted to catch him in a lie…

"Mila?" Natasha said, crouching next to the young dancer as she huddled in her fold out chair at her dressing table. "What's the matter?"

"Some of the other girls were making fun of me," she said in a small voice. "I know it's just talk and I'm trying to ignore it but…it still hurts."

Natasha frowned as the faces of several culprits immediately popped to mind. "Which girls?"

Mila turned her wide blue eyes on Natasha and shook her head. "I don't want to get them in trouble. I'm not a tattle-tale."

Natasha sighed. "All right, if that's what you want, but if you tell me who they are, I can make them stop."

"No, they'd only tease me worse. They know how you're nicer to me than you are to them and that's…"

Mila trailed off but she didn't have to finish for Natasha to get the idea.

"They think I favor you," she said.

Mila nodded. "I'm a hard worker, I don't want to be favored. I want to earn my place."

Natasha squeezed Mila's hand. "And you have. Many times over. Don't pay them any mind."

The American, who Natasha had been vaguely aware of for the whole conversation, still hovered in the doorway, watching. At this point, he stepped forward, hesitating slightly as if he wasn't quite sure he was allowed to speak up.

"Is she okay?" he whispered.

Natasha and Mila had been conversing in Russian and the American had missed the entire exchange. She glanced over her shoulder and nodded.

"Yes, she's fine. Nothing I can't handle."

"Oh, I'm sure you can, no argument there. Anything I can do to help?"

Natasha stifled a sigh. "No, thank you. You can go now."

Mila's gaze flicked between Natasha and the American, watching them, confused. The American wavered for a moment then seemed to finally realize he wasn't needed and left the room. Natasha stayed with Mila for a few more minutes but she seemed calmer now. After Mila left, Natasha started back to Ivan's limo only to find the American waiting for her outside of Mila's dressing room, leaning against the wall, his hands shoved in his pockets. He pushed off the wall at the sight of her, perking up.

"Is she really okay?" he asked.

"Yes, just a misunderstanding between the dancers. It's cleared up now though. You didn't have to stay."

"I know but it didn't seem right to leave."

Natasha swallowed the lump of pride in her throat and said, "It was good that you came for me. Mila…she's young, too young sometimes for this business. It's hard on all of us but especially so on her." Every word seemed to burn as it passed the tip of her tongue. She shouldn't be complimenting him, she didn't _want_ to compliment him, but when it came to the dancers, he had to know she was the one to consult, not anyone else. Thank god he hadn't approached Ekaterina first.

He shrugged and Natasha marveled as the tips of his ears turned red. He'd been so cocky and sure of himself earlier, but a compliment suddenly made him self-conscious. Interesting.

"I didn't know what else to do," he said. "You seemed to be like the head honcho of the place. I was watching you in practice earlier." He held up his hands in surrender. "I mean that in a totally non-creepy way. That came out wrong. Shit."

Natasha bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction, not yet, and she wanted to know more about him in order to play him like a fiddle, like all her other marks in the past.

"You're right," she said.

The American glanced up in surprise. "I am? I mean, yeah, I am. About what again?"

"I'm the head dancer here, the other dancers usually come to me when they have a problem or they come to Madame Bolishinko."

"Ah," he said, nodding in understanding. "It's nice to know I do something right every once in a while."

A beat of silence passed and Natasha nearly turned to go when the American spoke.

"Hey, I'm new around here, could you point out a good place to eat?"

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "I nearly broke your arm five minutes ago but now you want me to recommend a restaurant?"

He gave a little nervous laugh. "Thought I might as well give it a shot since I was up on my luck and all. Unless, you know, you want me poisoned but I figured since you didn't break my arm – and you could have – that we're on a little more civil ground now. Maybe. I think?"

She didn't respond, simply stared at him for a purposefully uncomfortable amount of time until he finally leaned forward expectantly.

"You should try Perchatki Krovi on Gagarin Street," she said. "Let them know I sent you and you'll be treated to the best meal you've ever had. Now if you'll excuse me." She turned to go and the American hurried to catch up with her.

"Wait, I have no idea where that is."

"Get a map."

The American was persistent though and wouldn't give up. "That's probably a good idea but I was hoping maybe you could show me around. You're pretty much the first person I've talked to here and I…"

Natasha had returned to Ivan's limo by now and she faced the American, her hand on the door of the car. "Mr. Jones, if that is your name which I have a hard time believing…"

A thrill of victory shot through her at the brief flicker of panic that crossed the American's face.

"You and I," she continued, "do not mingle. I am a ballerina, you are a stage hand. I am Russian, you are American. It won't work. One of us will end up dead and it will not be me."

The American's mouth worked open and closed for a moment, stunned. "Is that…? That was a death threat. You're…threatening me? You've haven't even known me for ten minutes."

"I could say the same for you. Good day, Mr. Jones," she said, sliding into the car, then added, "or whoever you are."

Before he could protest any further, she shut the door, narrowly missing his fingers in the process.

For the entire drive back to her apartment, she was silent, lost in her own thoughts. Ivan didn't push, recognizing the telltale signs that she needed to work things out on her own. That didn't stop him from casting a few concerned glances at her in the rearview mirror.

Natasha did a brief search on the American and, not surprisingly, picked up a little juicy detail immediately: everything was spit-polished clean. Too clean. Someone was trying too hard to maintain his new identity. She'd seen countless fake profiles over the years and she knew exactly when she was looking at a real identity versus a fake one and "Henry Jones" was without a doubt an imposter.

She sent a brief message to Strucker to dig deeper on the American while she changed into black jeans, a long sleeved shirt, ski cap and boots and slipped out the back, heading towards the downtown district with a knife tucked into her right boot and a wad of rubles in her pocket. If the American had help in maintaining his new identity from a higher position, which was what she suspected, Strucker would only find what the American wanted to be found and not much more than that. Natasha would have to go through other, more resourceful, channels to get information on him.

The nights were becoming a little warmer now that spring had firmly settled in Moscow but that only meant the snow had melted and the ice had thawed. A stubborn chill still clung to the wind and crept along the skin in shivers. It was completely dark by the time she reached downtown Moscow, winding her way through the labyrinthine streets. The homeless became more prominent figures here, lining the alleyways, tucked under newspapers and cardboard. Natasha could just make out silhouettes, darker shadows amid the cobweb of shadows caught between buildings, the darkness occasionally broken only by the angry orange-red glow of a cigarette.

Natasha stopped in front of an abandoned apartment complex, boarded up and crumbling, the gray green door covered in Russian graffiti, and knocked three times. Several long seconds passed in silence and as she raised her hand to be more insistent this time, the scrape of a metal lock echoed and the door opened a crack. A blood-shot eye peered out at her.

"What do you want?" a croaking voice demanded.

"Solvetnik," she said in a stern tone. "It's me, Romanoff. Open the door, I have a job for you."

The door opened all the way, revealing a short, hunched old man, wrapped up in a brown corduroy coat three sizes too big for him.

"Tsarina!" he said, flinging his stumpy arms wide. He clasped her hands in his and pulled her inside. "Come, come. I didn't know it was you, I apologize for my lack of manners."

"Is someone giving you trouble?" Natasha said, following after the old man. He hobbled deeper into the abandoned apartment complex, lit only by the occasional candle flickering in the darkest corners to stave off the shadows.

Solvetnik waved his arms over his head as he spoke. "Nah, just some teenagers, you know how they are. Loud, no respect, the usual." He cast a glance over his shoulder with a sparkle in his eyes. "Though I appreciate the concern, Your Highness."

He half climbed, half pulled himself up a flight of dimly lit steps, his breath coming in rasping wheezes, and he pushed open another door. A pile of ratty, musty blankets and a sagging mattress sat in one corner. A scratched up wooden table with two rickety chairs stood in the middle of the room. There was more graffiti too, only this time without the obscenities. Thousands upon thousands of numbers that didn't amount to anything more than chicken scratches and gibberish filled the gray cement walls from floor to ceiling and Natasha knew exactly who had put it there.

"You've been busy," she said. "Is this your third room?"

"Fifth," Solvetnik beamed, his eyes becoming lost in wrinkle upon wrinkle of skin. "I'm close to a break through, I can feel it, I know it. I'll get it, then I'll show them, I'll show them all I'm not some crazy old man."

"You don't have to prove yourself to me," she replied. She didn't have to ask what he was solving, the numbers were just numbers, and it gave him peace of mind and kept him calm when nothing else would. Asking what exactly he was trying to solve made him upset and sent him into incoherent screaming fits.

Solvetnik shuffled over to the bed, picked up a bottle of vodka and two grimy glasses, then returned to the table. He sighed as he eased himself into one of the chairs with a wave for Natasha to take the other. Natasha pulled the chair to the side slightly so she could keep an eye on the door as well as make it appear she was giving Solvetnik her whole attention. He ran a gnarled hand through his white hair in a vain attempt to tame it. It only popped back up again, as if he'd stuck a fork in an electrical socket. He tugged the bottle closer and carefully, slowly, poured two full cups with a studious amount of concentration.

"Forgive me, Your Highness, but you said you had a job for me?" Solvetnik asked as he pushed one glass towards Natasha.

Natasha took the glass but didn't drink it and instead placed a picture of the American on the table. "I need information," she said.

Solvetnik picked up the picture and held it close to his face, examining it with a fierce squint. He sniffed and downed the vodka in one gulp.

"Any specifics you're looking for?" he asked.

"The works."

He nodded then slid the picture back across the table. In return, Natasha slid a fat white envelope filled with rubles over to him and Solvetnik's eyes widened a fraction of an inch before he recovered himself. He took the envelope, huddled over it and rummaged through the contents, his lips silently moving as he counted. Natasha always paid him well for being her snitch, considering how risky it could be to spy for her but she'd never paid him quite this much before, especially before a job was finished. The deal had always been half now, half later. She watched Solvetnik grapple with himself for a moment as he did every time she proposed a job for him. He never turned her down but he liked to think about it for a moment anyway.

"Anything the Tsarina commands," Solvetnik said. "It will be done."

It was well after midnight by the time she returned to her apartment and as sore and exhausted as her body was, her brain wasn't ready to shut off. She curled up on the sofa, and cranked the television up. She didn't even care that it replayed the same obnoxious string of infomercials over and over, all she wanted was noise and distraction. That voice in the back of her mind had grown to demanding levels throughout the day and it was getting harder and harder to ignore it.

Sleep was unstoppable, barreling down on her, dragging her eyelids down until she melted against the cushions and drifted off.

_Soft white sands drifted between Natasha's toes. Crystal blue ocean stretched towards the horizon and blended with the cloudless sky in a wall of blue._

_"Hello, beautiful."_

_Natasha whirled at the sound of Alexei's voice. She knew he wasn't real, he was dead, for seven years he'd been dead, but she still studied his face, his eyes, the soft curve of his lips, the way his dark curly hair was tousled by the salty ocean breeze. He stood barely two feet away, smiling that devil-may-care grin that always sent a riot of butterflies churning through her stomach. _

_With a jolt, she realized where she was, where her subconscious had taken her. Their honeymoon in Bora Bora. Three blissful weeks with no KGB, no work, no responsibilities, just sun, ocean, beaches and Alexei all to herself._

_Natasha knew she should wake herself up, get herself out of this dream that would only cause more heartache but she reached for Alexei anyway. Her outstretched fingers settled on his arm and she bit her lip to swallow a sob that rose in her throat._

_"Alexei," she breathed. "You're so warm."_

_Alexei laughed, soft and deep and Natasha closed her eyes, soaking it in. It had been so long since she'd heard that wonderful, perfect sound…_

_"I would say it's because of weeks in the sun," he said. "But it's really because of you."_

_His hands settled on her hips and pulled her towards him. "I missed you," he whispered, his breath hot and gentle against her ear, sending shivers skittering across her skin. She slid her arms around him, running her hands up his back and clutching at his shoulders as if she could keep him here if she held him tight enough. She felt the muscles of his back, firm and warm and so painfully real beneath her hands as he shifted against her, folding her into his arms, pressing a kiss against her neck._

_"You're not real," she whispered._

_"Of course I am, baby," he said. Natasha rested her forehead in the curve of his neck and shoulder, reveling in that deep rumble of his voice as he spoke. _

_She shook her head. "No," she said. "No, you died, I watched you die."_

_Alexei pulled back and cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over her cheekbones. Natasha wrapped her fingers over his wrists and leaned into him. God, she'd missed him so, so much._

_"I'm right here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."_

_Alexei kissed her, gently, softly, and she whimpered against his lips as she became lost in everything she'd loved, everything she'd missed about Alexei for seven long years. The sharp, spicy scent of his aftershave, the comfortable, easy way he held her… _

_When he pulled back, Natasha opened her eyes and jerked away. A figure clad all in black with a pale grinning mask stood behind Alexei pressing a knife to his throat. She lunged but suddenly seemed miles away; the harder she ran towards him, the sand swallowed her steps and she fell further away. A red gash blossomed across Alexei's throat and he sagged into the sand._

_"No!" Natasha screamed. Finally, _finally,_ she'd reached him. The figure took off down the beach but Natasha could only think of Alexei as she pressed her hands against his neck, frantic to stop the bleeding. "No, no, Alexei, please don't leave me again."_

_His gaze fixed on her but his eyes were empty, blank._

_He was gone._

Natasha sat bolt upright on the couch, her breath coming in short gasps as if the grief was drowning her, filling her lungs and slowly suffocating her. She stumbled to the bathroom and splashed icy water on her face. She braced herself against the sink until her breathing began to even out again. Fumbling for her phone, she barely registered the clock reading 3am before she dialed Ivan.

"Morning, little one," he said. His voice, surprisingly, came across clear and alert rather than groggy with sleep like she had expected him to be at three in the morning.

"Can you…?"

The words faltered in her throat. She never asked for help from anyone, it only fostered weakness but the image of Alexei bleeding out in front of her still sat fresh in her mind and nothing was making it fade.

Natasha didn't have to finish though. Ivan knew.

"I'm out front," he said. "Come down whenever you're ready."

"Thank you," she whispered.

Natasha wrapped herself up in her coat and headed downstairs. The lobby was deserted so early in the morning and no one saw her leave. Ivan held the door for her as usual but didn't speak until the car was moving.

"Anywhere in particular you need to go, little one?"

She shook her head. "No, just…drive for a while. Anywhere. I don't care."

"What's bothering you?"

Natasha crawled into the front seat and pulled her knees up to her chest.

"There's a new guy at the theatre," she said. "An American. He reminds me of Alexei a little bit."

Ivan cast a quick glance over at her and placed a comforting hand on her arm.

"And the nightmares started again?"

She sighed. "I thought I was past them. I haven't had one in months."

"It's different now. You're at the Bolshoi. It's where you first met him, where you spent the most time together." He paused. "That's why you weren't thrilled to be on this job, isn't it?"

She nodded. "I tried to get out of it, believe me, I tried."

Ivan brushed his hand over her hair and patted her shoulder. "You can make it through, little one, you always have. What is it about this new guy that reminds you of Alexei?"

"I don't know, I guess…when I first saw him, I didn't see his face and he…" she hesitated, forcing the words out that choked up in her throat. "I thought Alexei had just walked in. It was so…disconcerting."

"Have you talked to him yet?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Any similarities?"

Natasha considered a moment, reviewing her interaction with the American earlier. "No," she said slowly. "No, they're…actually very different."

"Hold onto that thought, little one," Ivan said. "Just keep reminding yourself of that. There's only one Alexei."

She rested her forehead against the window and closed her eyes. "I know," she whispered. "I know."

By the time Ivan had reached the outskirts of Moscow and parked the limo on a grassy hill overlooking the city, Natasha was asleep, tucked into her seat and looking every bit the little girl that Ivan had watched grow up. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over her then brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

"Sweet dreams, little one," he whispered.


	6. Bullets and Ballerinas

**A/N: I've come to the realization that I _hate_ attempting to spell "hors d'oeuvres". Also, Bobbi/Clint just might be developing into my new favorite friendship.**

**CLINT**

Bobbi had been giving him a good verbal lashing for an hour straight and Clint was nearly ready to rip the ear piece out again.

"Don't_ ever_ take your com out, Barton," Bobbi said for the millionth time. "This is your first mission, you stay in contact with me at all times."

Clint had been quiet in the hopes that Bobbi would eventually stop on her own, with nothing more to say, but that seemed to be impossible and he finally cut in.

"Bobbi."

She huffed. "What."

"I get it, okay? I won't take it out again, cross my heart, scout's honor or whatever."

"You weren't even in boy scouts."

"No I wasn't."

"Can't use scout's honor then."

"Carnie's honor doesn't quite hold the same weight."

"Touche. What are you up to now?"

Grateful for the change in subject, Clint replied, "I'm on my way to get something to eat, I'm starving. Nothing exciting. I would ask for radio silence but don't really want to press my luck at the moment."

"You have very little luck to press," Bobbi said in an irritated tone. "But since you asked politely, I'll oblige. Just keep your com on and for pete's sake, Barton, don't take it out again."

"Yes ma'am."

Bobbi went quiet and Clint breathed a sigh of relief. He appreciated her company but he was still struggling to find a tactful way to say that having her in his head all the time was distracting and unnerving. When he was talking to Romanoff, with Bobbi making comments the whole time, he felt like his brain was getting pulled in two different directions. So he had taken the com out. And apparently the sky had fallen, the world had ended and hellfire rained down on his head. Clint and Bobbi were still ironing out a few kinks working together across so much distance. It was one thing to work face to face on the sparring mats, it was a whole new ball game when Bobbi couldn't see or hear or experience what he did.

But now, Clint was off to find Percha-what-cha-mah-call-it that _Miss_ Romanoff had recommended. He couldn't even pronounce it properly. His crash course in Russian at SHIELD hadn't stuck nearly as much as Coulson said it would.

Clint had obtained a map, which he couldn't make much sense of, and asked for directions a few times but people either didn't understand him or gave him weird looks and practically ran away. He finally found the place and boy, did he not have a good feeling about it. He had pictured some pricey upscale restaurant that served Barbie sized portions of hors d'oeuvres after he sold off a few body parts to cover the bill and he'd still be hungry afterwards. But this…it was definitely not anything like what he had imagined.

It was tucked into a dark alley with the faint, sickeningly sweet smell of opium clinging to the air. He would know that smell anywhere. Jacques used to be addicted to the stuff and Clint had become used to the cloying scent. For a moment, Clint debated turning around and hightailing it out of there. It would have been the smart thing to do but his job required that he check out every lead on possible HYDRA agents. He had no idea where Romanoff had sent him but as much as he dreaded what lay before him, curiosity prodded him forward.

As Clint approached the door, shrouded in pale, anemic yellow light, he slid one hand into his jacket, wrapping his fingers around the gun tucked into the holster against his ribs. The feel of the cold metal provided a small measure of comfort as he knocked on the door and waited.

Several seconds passed before the door opened and a mountain of a man filled the doorway, muscles straining to bust the seams of his black t-shirt as he towered over Clint. His short dark hair was cropped close to his head military style and his bottom lip stuck out, making him look dangerously close to the infamous missing link between ape and man which Clint decided he'd better not comment on. A cloud of opium smoke wafted out after the giant ape man and Clint took a step back, waving a hand in front of his face to dissipate the heady smell.

"Uh, hi," Clint choked out.

Ape Man growled and leveled a hard stare at him.

"I was sent here, by a…friend. God, I really hope you speak English and I'm not just talking to myself here."

"Who?" he grunted.

"Me? I'm Henry Jones and…"

"No. Who sent you?"

"Oh, Natasha Romanoff," Clint replied. "She works at the…"

Before he could finish his sentence, Ape Man pulled a massive revolver from the waistband of his slacks. Clint ducked to the right behind a dumpster and he could have sworn he heard the swish of the bullet as it passed his head. Three more bullets hammered into the metal of the dumpster. He drew his own gun and fired back, forcing Ape Man to retreat inside long enough for Clint to take off running.

"What the hell was that?" Bobbi demanded.

"Gunshots," Clint replied.

"Yeah, I got that much. Was it at you? What did you do?"

"Why do you assume it was me? Why not the other guy?"

"Barton," Bobbi growled. "What happened?"

"I was checking out this place that Romanoff mentioned. I thought it was a restaurant but I guess not."

"Wait, what place did Romanoff tell you about? See, this is why you don't take your com out, Barton. I totally missed that conversation, damn it."

"I just asked her where I could eat, you know, a little friendly, Hi, I'm new here, bumbling American needs help kind of thing."

"And? What's this place called?"

Clint fumbled to pronounce it and Bobby snatched it right up.

"Perchatki Krovi?" she asked.

"Yeah, that's it."

Clint thought, considering their professional relationship, along with the fact that he was a rookie agent, on his own, in a dangerous country that he wasn't technically supposed to be allowed in…that she might be a little concerned someone had just taken a shot at him.

But no.

Bobbi started laughing.

"How the hell is this funny?" he protested.

"Only a little bit," she replied. "Perchatki Krovi is Russian for 'Gloves of Blood.' It's run by one of the most notorious mob bosses in Russia."

"You couldn't have told me this before!?"

"You didn't ask."

Clint groaned. "And I walked right into it. How was I supposed to know she would send me to a mob boss? Still don't think it's funny by the way."

"Okay, okay, maybe I shouldn't laugh that hard. You didn't get hit, did you?"

"No."

"Good."

Clint paused a few blocks away, pressed his back to a nearby building and waited, watching to see if Ape Man had followed him. When several minutes passed and there was no sign of anyone after him, Clint sighed and tucked the gun back into its holster.

"You all right?" Bobbi asked quietly.

"Yep," he replied, struggling to catch his breath. "Nothing like a gunfight to get the adrenaline pumping. Why would Romanoff send me to a mob boss? How would she even know where to find one?"

"It's more common than you might think," Bobbi replied. "Especially where you're working. I've checked the backgrounds of every employee at the Bolshoi and nearly half of them have some connection to illegal activities."

"You're kidding."

"Welcome to Russia."

"Please tell me it's not all like this," Clint said.

"It's not actually. The country is beautiful, the people care about each other. It's just where we sent you happens to be a hotbed of criminal activity."

"Great, really appreciate that, thanks."

"There's a little hole in the wall place two blocks from your apartment," Bobbi said. "Soup, sandwiches, it's a good start to ease you into the food there. No mob bosses either."

Clint paused, mid-step. "And you've let me go through this entire week on sardines and crackers from the gas station on the corner? You couldn't have told me this before?"

"You didn't ask."

Clint's phone rang the next morning, obnoxious and obscenely loud in the silence of his tiny apartment. He flung one arm out, fumbling, until he found it and flipped it open.

"What?" he grunted.

"Rise and shine," Bobbi chirped.

"Oh god, you're kidding me," he groaned.

"Can't sleep with the com in, I know that, but I can still find other ways to get inside your head."

Clint contemplated hanging up and burying his head in the pillow but he decided that probably wouldn't be a wise move if he didn't want Bobbi chewing him out for the rest of the day. He squinted at the glowing red numbers on his bedside clock. 5am.

"You couldn't have let me sleep in even a little bit? I was shot at yesterday by a gorilla dude, you know. I could have died. You should take it easy on me."

"Come on, Barton," Bobbi teased. "Couldn't have been that different from working with the bearded lady."

"Ha, ha," Clint said, rolling out of bed and scrubbing a hand through his hair. "There was no bearded lady at my circus."

"Such a pity."

"How many espressos have you had already?"

"Three."

"I'm hanging up now and getting caffeine. I'm only catching every third word you say."

"If your com isn't in by the time you walk out the door, I'm calling again."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Hey, one more thing," Bobbi said.

Clint sighed. "Bobbi, it's too early for this…"

"No, it's not that. It's…your brother."

Clint stiffened, wide awake now. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just thought you'd like to know that he's doing okay. He…went to the cops though. There's a bounty on your head now. He really wants to make sure you don't come back."

Clint rubbed at his forehead and nearly crawled back into bed where he could shut the world out for a little while, forget about his brother, forget about everything. Instead, he nodded.

"Thank you for telling me," he said.

"No problem. Now go get caffeine. You've got super spy stuff to do today."

After Clint hung up, he sat on the edge of his bed, his bare feet pressed to the ice cold wooden floor, as he entertained the idea of sending a message to his brother, reassuring him that he would never be back, they would never see each other again. He was tempted to ask Bobbi how much the bounty was, what price his brother was willing to pay to have Clint brought in. Was it dead or alive?

He shook his head and pushed off the bed, tugging a shirt on and shoving thoughts of Barney from his mind. It would be better that he didn't know any details. His life with Barney was in the past and he couldn't go back, no matter how much he might want to. Things would never be the same again. His life was with SHIELD now. Any thoughts of Barney would only slow him down at this point and cloud his judgement and he needed to be sharp as a pin if he wanted to stay alive, as was evident from yesterday's experience.

Running the risk of being a little late, Clint decided to get lost in the winding streets of Moscow for a while on the way to the theatre. The soft purr of his motorcycle's engine, the rush of the wind, the gentle leaning sway on every corner and turn, it gave him time to think, time to escape his responsibilities for a while.

He couldn't run forever though. Eventually, the first rays of dawn spilled into the streets, warm and golden, and Clint knew he should have been at the theatre long before now. As he parked his bike and headed inside, he considered how he would handle any interactions with Romanoff in light of her attempt to get him killed. It's not like he had many opportunities to talk to her in the first place, it would be easy to steer clear of her and stay out of her way. She was busy with the other dancers, he was busy with set prep and maintenance. Their paths hardly crossed. But subtlety was never much of a strong suit for Clint and a little brush with some bullets was nothing new for him.

As he expected, Clint didn't run into Romanoff until mid-day, when the dancers took a break. Romanoff broke off from the group and headed to the coolers back stage for a bottle of water and Clint met her there.

"So, you have rather violent tastes in restaurants," he said. "Tell me, was it because I mentioned your name that I nearly took a bullet to the head or because it was like some kind of secret death code?"

Romanoff raised an eyebrow and Clint could have sworn one corner of her mouth twitched up in a slight smile.

"Does it really matter?" she said. "Either way, it was effective. Besides, if you hadn't lied about who you were in the first place, I never would have sent you there."

A flicker of panic tightened Clint's throat but he swallowed it. She was just bluffing, she couldn't possibly know anything.

"That's hardly fair," he said. "I didn't lie about anything."

Romanoff shot him an annoyed look in response.

"Even if I did," he continued, "which I didn't by the way, everyone is entitled to a fresh start."

"There's no such thing as a fresh start. The consequences of every choice you make will follow you for the rest of your life, especially where murder is involved."

Shit, Clint thought. She's definitely not bluffing now. She knew something. "Uh…wait a minute," he said, both stalling for time to create some cover story and working to clarify what the hell she actually knew without giving himself away. "Are we talking about the same thing here? Because I get the feeling we're not."

"I know what you did, why you had to leave America and I know who you are," she said simply, only a hint of menace to her voice, then added, "Clint Barton."

The brief flare of panic Clint had experienced earlier now exploded and twisted his stomach into a tangle of knots.

Romanoff continued, whether she recognized his panic or not. "Thief," she said. "Fraud. Attempted murderer of your own brother."

When Clint finally managed to speak, his voice came out in a rasping croak. "I don't know what you're…"

"Stop. Lying," she hissed.

Clint snapped his mouth shut. So the secret was out already. Damn. Damn. Damn. He hadn't even made it two weeks before screwing up his second chance beyond all repair. Bobbi was going to _kill_ him. Once she told Coulson or…oh god, Fury…he would be pulled from the job and his second chance would be shucked down the toilet just like that. What had given him away? He'd been so careful.

Well, on the bright side, he supposed he couldn't make things much worse. On second thought, the bright side pretty much sucked too.

"I'm not passing judgement," Romanoff said.

Clint frowned in confusion. "How can you not? What I did…"

"I don't care."

"What?"

"Circumstances in police reports and eye witness accounts are all too easily tampered with or altered in some way," she said, rattling it off as if she'd memorized it for some weird test. "They're not dependable. I don't know why you did what you did and like I said, I don't care. Move to another country for a change of scenery or to escape charges of manslaughter and theft, doesn't matter. Call yourself by whatever name you want. Henry Jones, Clint Barton, doesn't matter."

Her eyes narrowed and her voice lowered until only he could hear. "But don't think you can find easy marks here. If anything happens to any of my people at the theatre and I find out you're at the bottom of it…"

Romanoff let the sentence trail off but the intent look in her eyes was more than enough for Clint to get the message. She wasn't screwing around. The run in with the mob boss was a demonstration of what she was capable of, the connections she had. She would have him killed without a second thought and not an ounce of guilt. If he stepped out of line, he'd suffer for it.

Clint nodded. "Got it," he whispered.

"Glad we understand each other."

As she walked away, Clint said, "Wait."

She paused but didn't turn around and waited for him to continue.

"Please don't…tell anyone. It really is a fresh start I'm going for here."

Now she turned to face him with a glimmer of a softer look in her gaze, something he might have taken for sympathy if she hadn't just threatened him for the second time in a row.

"I can make no promises," she said.

Once Romanoff left, Bobbi spoke up for the first time during the whole interaction. "Well then. Guess who just got bumped up the list of suspects. Don't answer that, you have no idea who's listening. Keep an eye on her."

Clint only barely registered that Bobbi wasn't pissed off at him for blowing his cover, even though he didn't know _how_ he'd blown it. He still felt as if he had a time limit ticking down the minutes to when Coulson or Fury would have him pulled from the job but who would they replace him with? Coulson did say Clint was their only option at this point. That didn't mean his screw ups would be forgiven though and he'd better work twice as hard to make up for his blown cover.

If only it was so easy to keep tabs on Romanoff. As Clint tried to figure out how to sneak into Romanoff's dressing room for a quick look around to see if he could find anything useful, the lead workman on the crew, Vladimir, came up behind him and shoved in the shoulder.

"You think you're good enough to talk to the ballerinas now?" he said, his voice so thickly accented that Clint could barely make out what he was saying.

Clint leaned back slightly, forcing his muscles to stay loose and not tense up at the thought of potential conflict. "I was only making polite conversation."

"Don't. Get back to work."

"Yes, sir," Clint said with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

He took off deeper into the theatre, eager to get away from Vladimir. Ever since Clint had set foot in the theatre on day one, Vladimir had been breathing down his neck. He had no idea what he did to deserve such contempt but he didn't let it get to him. There were people at the circus he didn't get along with after years of working together. It's just the way things played out sometimes.

"Hey."

Clint spun around at the small voice to find Mila staring at him from the shadows, her wide blue eyes seemingly too big for her small, narrow face. She looked so tiny tucked between racks of old costumes and dusty, half-dismantled sets.

"Hi," he said. "You…what are you doing back here? Shouldn't you be practicing?"

She nodded. "Yes, but I don't want to yet. Not until the music starts."

He tilted his head to the side then glanced back over his shoulder, half expecting Vladimir to come charging at him for daring to speak to another ballerina after just telling Clint off about it. "Are you…avoiding someone?"

Again, she nodded. "Several. Ekaterina and Galina, they tease me for being so small."

"That's not your fault."

She shrugged and fiddled with the feathers of a costume on the rack next to her. "I still don't like hearing it."

"Well I don't blame you there."

"He's just jealous, you know," she said.

All thoughts of being on the lookout flew from his mind. "Pardon?"

"Vladimir. He's jealous because Miss Romanoff sees you but not him. Miss Romanoff hasn't really talked to anyone in a long time, apart from instructions for dancing."

"Why is that?"

"Because of Alexei."

Before he could ask what she meant, Vladimir's voice tore through the theatre. "Jones!"

Clint stiffened. He glanced over his shoulder again but Vladimir wasn't there so he couldn't possibly know he was talking to Mila.

Mila's eyes widened even more.

"It's okay, kiddo," Clint said. "He's all bark, hardly any bite. And you're not the one in trouble, I am."

"He's still scary," she whispered.

Clint had to agree on that point. Vladimir looked like a walking sparkplug, wide, stocky, a permanent frown etched into his face with a chronic anger management problem to match. He didn't bother Clint as much as set him on edge. Clint had dealt with all kinds of personalities at the circus and he'd met a few like Vladimir before so all it took was one look and he knew Vladimir was a ticking time bomb, an explosion waiting to happen.

Clint faced Mila and nodded in the direction of the stage. "Time to face the music, I guess."

She sighed and two identical worry lines creased between her eyebrows. Tentatively, he reached out and nudged her shoulder.

"Hey, come on, I've seen you up there. You dance pretty big for a small little cupcake. You got this."

A slight smile tugged at the corner of her lips and her eyes brightened. Clint made a little bow and held his hand out to her.

"May I escort you back to the stage, Miss Mila?"

Her fear dissipated slightly and she beamed, making two dimples flash in her cheeks. When she stepped out of her hiding place and took his hand with that smile on her face, it was if another person walked next to him. Her narrow chin was held high, her back straight, her steps soft and whispering across the wooden floor in a gentle _whisk-whisk_. When they were back to the stage, she cast him a grateful look and a whispered, "Thank you," before joining the other dancers.

"You are such a softie," Bobbi said.

Clint wanted to fire off some witty comeback but her earlier warning of who might be listening came back to him and he clamped his mouth shut.

It didn't take long to find Vladimir, still bellowing like a sick pig.

"What took you so long?" he scowled when Clint finally appeared.

"I was busy with prepping a set." Part truth, he really was supposed to be working on a set. The fact that he didn't actually get to working on it…well, good ol' Vlad didn't need to know that part.

Vladimir pointed to the rafters. "The lights need to be cleaned and that's the new guy's job."

"Every crappy job is the new guy's job," Clint muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Sounds fantastic. Really looking forward to it."

Vladimir squinted at him but instead of making a big deal out of it, he jerked his thumb towards a ladder leading up to the catwalk.

"Then get moving. They need to be finished by the time the place is closed up tonight."

Clint picked up the bucket of cleaning supplies at the base of the ladder and started climbing. Vladimir stood at the base, arms crossed, a smug, satisfied smirk on his face.

"You know what happened to the last guy who cleaned the lights, Jones?" he called.

Clint rolled his eyes. "No," he whispered. "But I bet you're going to tell me anyway."

"There aren't any rails up there. Couldn't get a crew to work on it. The last guy got a little dizzy, couldn't handle the height. Slipped and fell to his death."

At the top of the ladder, Clint didn't even waver. The height was a little dizzying but he'd been higher. He hoisted himself onto the first beam of lights, six stories high with nothing to catch him if he fell, right onto the stage. He'd have a good long drop, probably close to a hundred feet. Plenty of time for his life, every memory, every regret, to flash before his eyes with room to spare. He tugged a cleaning rag from his back pocket and started to polish the thick layer of dust and grime from the old fashioned light bulbs.

Clint caught a glimpse of Vladimir out of the corner of his eye while he worked. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing when Vladimir let his arms drop to his sides and stalked off after he realized Clint wasn't even going to wobble or threaten to fall.

It took three hours to clean all the lights to Vladimir's satisfaction. He was able to watch much of the dancers practicing and get a better feel for the dynamics among them where he'd only been able to catch glimpses here and there before. Mila was still teased by two of the dancers, one with long dark hair and cat-like eyes, the other with short, curly blonde hair and sharp, angular features. And Romanoff ruled over them all with a smooth confidence of someone long accustomed to the pressures of being the lead.

Clint had also watched in frustration as the dancers trickled out of practice one by one or in groups, along with his chance to follow Romanoff or get into her dressing room. He'd have to find another opportunity later. Mila waved to him when she left though and that made things suck a little less.

By the time the job was finished, the sun had gone down, leaving the streets bathed in shifting shadows and the sweeping lights of traffic. Clint stopped at a crusty little diner on his way back to his apartment for some food. The diner was mostly empty, save for an elderly couple at the far end.

Clint eased himself into a booth and rubbed his hands over his eyes.

"Eventful day," Bobbi said.

"No kidding," he replied, keeping his voice low. "Look, about earlier."

"Romanoff blowing your cover."

"Yeah…." Clint hedged. "Did I mess up or something?"

"No, it wasn't you. SHIELD hasn't put a cap on your past history as a red herring if anyone looks into your background, like Romanoff obviously did. It'll keep her from going any deeper. From what I've found on her so far, she has high end connections in most of Russia. Politicians, billionaires, you name it, she's got her fingers in it but that could be due to her profession. Many, many people want to rub elbows with the elite Russian ballet company and vice versa. Money makes the world go round."

"Like sponsors?"

"Yeah, something like that. It's…"

The bell over the diner door jingled. Clint didn't think much of it but his gaze slid over to the door anyway as a woman walked in. His instincts flared to attention. The woman seemed familiar somehow, her blonde hair covered by a baseball cap, and his suspicions were only encouraged by her dark shades at eight o'clock at night. She slid into a stool at the counter, her back ramrod straight, her chin propped in her hand.

"Hellooooo," Bobbi said. "Barton, you better not have taken your com out again. I'll come over there and stuff it back in your head permanently. I don't even care if KGB arrests me or not."

"Quiet," he muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"Woman just walked in, I recognize her but…I'm not sure from where."

Bobbi fell silent and Clint tried to look nonchalant but at the same time never let the woman out of his sight. His food arrived, greasy and lukewarm, and it gave him an excuse to poke at something, to make it seem like he was occupied, but he'd long since lost his appetite. Why couldn't he remember where he'd seen that woman before? It was bugging the hell out of him.

The woman didn't order anything besides a cup of coffee that she never touched besides endlessly stirring it. Clint had no idea how long he could stay here. If he waited too long, he might spook her, make her run.

Thirty minutes dragged by and the waiter was giving him weird looks that he wasn't touching much of his food, wasn't ordering anything but he wasn't getting ready to leave either. Just as Clint was about to leave, realizing he'd worn out his welcome, a tall man entered, wearing an unusually long, heavy dark coat for the warmer weather, and sidled up to the woman at the counter. His coat collar was turned up, hiding much of his face from Clint's view. Clint might have brushed it off if the guy had taken a pass at the woman or started some friendly chitchat but instead, the newcomer turned his back to the rest of the diner and Clint only caught a flash of a large brown envelope sliding across the counter towards the woman before she tucked it into her coat.

The woman stayed for maybe a minute more before she tossed a few coins on the counter, tinkling and rattling in the silence of the diner, then left. Clint didn't wait to see how long the man would stay, he didn't recognize him, but the woman…he had to know who she was. Abandoning his food, he followed the woman and as she started to climb into a cab, he broke into a jog, improvising as he went.

"Wait!"

The woman paused and turned towards him, lowering her glasses.

"Sorry to bother you, ma'am," he said, "but have you seen my dog?"

She frowned and shook her head, mumbling something in Russian then, "No, I'm sorry."

"All right, thanks anyway."

The woman stared at him for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before getting back into the cab.

"Mind telling me what just happened?" Bobbi asked.

"The woman in the diner," Clint said, watching the cab drive away. "Some guy came in, passed her an envelope."

"Waiting for the punchline here, Barton."

"I couldn't figure out who the woman was until I got a good look at her face. She works at the theatre, one of the dancers."

"Which one? Romanoff?" Bobbi asked, her tone clipped and business-like again.

"No, no. Different one. She was teasing Mila earlier. Ekaterina or Galina, not sure which one is which."

"And our list grows. You're supposed to be narrowing down the possible suspects, Barton, not adding to it."

"I can only work with what I've got here, give me a break."

Clint retreated to his apartment and didn't bother with much more than his usual sardines and crackers for dinner. His brain was too busy running through the day's events to care about his bland meal. He ate at the tiny counter standing up, running on autopilot at this point, mechanically feeding his body but not tasting the food. Bobbi was silent, busy doing…something, he didn't know what. He moved to dump his dishes in the sink and a burst of static shrieked in his ear.

Clint winced and, despite Bobbi's insistence, yanked out the earpiece, tossing it on the counter. He rubbed at his ear, the high-pitched wail still echoing in his head. After a full minute passed, he picked up the offending technology and gingerly held it at a safe distance from his head, making sure there was no static before he tucked it back into his ear.

"Everything okay?" Bobbi asked.

"Yeah just some static issues."

"Uh…no, your com shouldn't have static issues. All the bugs were worked out in testing first."

"Don't ask me, all I know is that it wasn't fun."

"Whatever. Hey, I'm not finding much in our databases that's unusual but you should get to the theatre early tomorrow, have a look around some dressing rooms before anyone else arrives and see if you can find anything interesting."

Clint tipped his head back and stifled a groan. "Earlier than five in the morning?"

"You should know better than anyone, _Hawkeye_," she said with added emphasis on his old circus name, "early bird gets the worm."


	7. The House of Lotus

**NATASHA**

Solvetnik worked fast, as Natasha knew he would. He had the American's – Barton's – apartment bugged within twenty-four hours. Right under the kitchen sink too, prime placement to hear almost everything that happened in the entire apartment. Barton was hardly there much though which meant she picked up very little. For all his talk of a fresh start, he seemed to have semi-regular conversations with someone he was very comfortable with. Maybe he didn't _really_ want to leave his past behind as he'd said.

The next day, she decided to really put the screws to Barton, pin him like a bug to a corkboard so he couldn't escape, get some answers as to his real business here. Her plans flew out the window the moment she stepped in the theatre. Mila had arrived early and she sat next to Barton on the edge of the stage. Natasha hung back, watching, as Mila talked a mile a minute, her face glowing, relating her adventures in dancing and Barton soaked up every word of it. He wasn't merely humoring her either. He gave Mila his full attention and Natasha couldn't ignore that, no matter what spin she tried to put on it. She wanted to hold it against him and resent him for getting Mila to open up, to be animated in a way she never was with anyone else only to crush her later on. He might let Mila down sometime in the future…but it was a long shot at best.

Other dancers began to show up along with the work crew and Barton and Mila went their separate ways. Despite the chaos of opening night drawing near with costume fittings and the orchestra coming in for practices now, she still managed to find a way to corner Barton backstage for a minute or two.

"You're distracting Mila from practice," Natasha said.

"Good morning to you too," Barton sighed. "Look, I know she has a job, so do I. The last thing I want is for her to slip up and lose a promising career in ballet just because we got a little chatty one too many times."

"Then keep your distance. She's young and she doesn't need whatever you're tangled up in."

That seemed to shut Barton's quips up for a fraction of a second. She'd hit a nerve. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, tinged with guilt.

"What do you expect me to do? Just ignore her?" He shook his head. "I don't want to hurt her."

"Then why are you talking to her?"

Barton shrugged in exasperation. "Because, damn it, she's the only one I've met who doesn't hate my American guts and hasn't outright threatened me which is actually kind of nice for a change."

Natasha didn't reply at first. She didn't pity him, but if he was desperate for friendships in a new place, she might learn more from him by playing the part of friend although the role never suited her much, it always became complicated and jumbled. Almost any other role would have suited her better. Cold hearted diva? A cinch. Don't let anyone in. She already did that. Seductress? Too easy. A little black dress, some red lipstick, and the rest was left up to the imagination. Voila, mission accomplished.

But friend? The lines became blurred, boundaries crossed in the blink of an eye, and it made the job infinitely harder than it already was when she had to double-cross – or kill – at a later date. She couldn't ever afford to develop a real friendship, the job would always come first.

"Earth to Miss Romanoff," Barton said, pulling her from her thoughts.

She blinked herself back to the present and shot him an annoyed look. "What."

"You just up and left there for a good minute or two. Everything okay?"

This was it. She didn't want to do it but if she could get the information she wanted, so be it. Time to change tactics.

"I think we may have started off on the wrong foot," Natasha said.

Barton frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well, our first meeting wasn't all that…friendly, I'll admit. You're new here and I believe it would be a good idea to start over, give you a proper welcome to Russia."

He eyed her warily. "Are you sick?"

"No…"

"'Cause I'm pretty sure I just heard something nice come out of your mouth."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Want me to take it back?"

"No, no, I mean it's good, it's…nice. Weird, but nice." He paused then a look of concern crossed his face. "Wait. What does a 'proper welcome to Russia' entail?"

"A tour of the city, maybe a few drinks if you enjoy that sort of thing."

"Nothing violent? Because I've already been shot at once and I'd rather not repeat the experience anytime soon."

Natasha allowed herself a small smile at that. "Nothing violent, I promise."

Barton hesitated but nodded anyway. "Yeah, sure, I'd be up for that. Later this week maybe? If, you know, you're not busy or anything. You look busy."

"That would be fine," she said.

Barton nodded again and he seemed to relax the slightest bit. "All right. Great. I'll just…I gotta ask something first."

"Certainly."

"Why the change of heart?"

She sighed. It had been going so well but then he had to ask questions and she was put on the spot to have a believable answer ready.

"Because, contrary to my first impression, I am not made of ice. You've brought Mila out of her shell, something no one else has been able to do. On that merit alone, you deserve more credit than I have given you."

Barton's eyebrows shot up, seemingly speechless.

"Is that a sufficient answer for you?" she asked, only a hint of teasing to her tone.

"Yes, it definitely is."

All the way back to her apartment, she thought of how she could question Barton while they toured Moscow. She wondered how well he held his liquor and if the truth would just bubble right out of his mouth after one too many drinks. Americans, she had found out, didn't tolerate Russian drinks too well.

When she walked in the door, she stopped in her tracks. On the table in the entryway sat a silver and green business card, pinned down by a small black lotus flower, frozen in mid-bloom. She picked up the flower, rolling it around in her fingers. The petals were smooth, slick, and hard. She scratched at the surface with a fingernail. Obsidian.

Next, the business card. The faint smell of incense and spices clung to the glossy paper. Looping, elaborate handwriting scrolled across the back.

_Lady Newmark requests your presence at The House of Lotus._

Natasha tapped the card against the table. Newmark had one hell of a reputation. Certain, unusual deaths worldwide that had been attributed to her were off the charts, men who had double crossed her, women who had mocked her. Granted, none of the deaths had been officially confirmed but there were hints. Poisons, darts, all manner of gruesome yet silent forms of assassinations signed with her trademark black lotus. No solid link directly connected to her, of course, which left speculation but Natasha believed there could be grains of truth buried in the stories.

Given Newmark's background, Natasha would have to stay on her toes, stay sharp for this. Newmark could give Natasha the break she desperately needed and she wasn't going to turn that opportunity down.

Natasha waited until nightfall to visit Newmark. "The House of Lotus", Natasha knew, was really a curio shop, buried in with other stalls, booths, and shops that lined the streets of Moscow's Chinatown. Red and gold paper lanterns glowed from shop windows and spilled warm pools of light across the pavement.

The House of Lotus didn't grab the attention, the storefront faded with a purposeful antique flavor about it, subtle yet promising for those who knew what they were looking for. Others would simply walk on by. The shop took up an entire street corner, unlike other shops that had to share a corner with at least two other sellers, which meant The House of Lotus held a prominent status in Chinatown. Newmark had earned respect here. Or fear. The two so often went hand in hand.

Candlelight flickered in the windows and a small Asian boy sat on an overturned bucket outside the door. When she approached, the boy scrambled to his feet and hurried to open the door for her with a bow.

The black and silver décor of the foyer gave the place a dark atmosphere that pulled at her, beckoning her deeper inside. The boy opened another door off to the left and disappeared. She followed after him and found herself in a room filled with knickknacks and trinkets. Various animal bodies - skulls, feet, teeth, and antlers - dangled from strings or floated in weird, yellowish viscous fluid-filled jars, or were pinned out on boards and mounted on the walls.

"I was beginning to think you wouldn't come."

Natasha turned at the smooth female voice. A woman stepped out from behind an ornamental partition, her movements subtle, like liquid gliding across the floor. She wore a slim fitting green silk dress with a slit up to her hip, her dark hair in perfect glossy, crimped waves down to her shoulders with a cluster of orchids tucked behind her ear. She smiled the slow, knowing smile of a cat with a trapped mouse.

"I'm assuming you have information for me," Natasha said. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be wasting your time as well as mine."

She inclined her head forward slightly. "Straight to business then, I see. This way." She slipped behind the partition again.

Natasha considered protesting but didn't think it would do much good. She wasn't the one with the upper hand here. Newmark had information that Natasha may, or may not, need. She couldn't afford to lose any leads at this point but she couldn't afford to put herself between a rock and a hard place either. She'd have to play this carefully.

She followed after Newmark into a small room with a low black marble table, two plates of sushi, a steaming pot of tea, and two small white cups. Green and black cushions scattered across the floor on either side of the table. Natasha settled across from Newmark, easing herself onto her knees so she could run at the first sign of trouble.

"I suppose you've guessed that I am the one who requested your presence here," Newmark said as she began pouring the tea into the cups. Each movement was measured, slow, unhurried. She was well aware she was the one in control here and Natasha was entirely at her mercy. She would take her time and there was nothing anyone could do to hurry things along.

"Lady Newmark, yes. And you already know who I am."

"Of course," Newmark said, sliding a cup towards Natasha. "Natasha Romanoff. I've always held a certain fondness for the ballet. I'm quite familiar with your work. On and off the stage."

Such a vague statement was loaded with hidden meaning, a strategic trap to get Natasha to divulge more. She used that trick one too many times herself but it left her on the defensive, not knowing exactly what Newmark implied, and she didn't like the feeling of scrambling to catch up. She needed to gain some high ground and fast.

Newmark glanced up for the first time, her cool gaze steady. "Gao," she called. "Bring him in."

A tall, thin, white man in a suit entered the far side of the room, guiding Solvetnik by the elbow. Gently, Natasha noticed, not harsh, not yet anyway. Solvetnik was blubbering and muttering a mile a minute though. The stress of the situation, of not being near the equations on his wall made him anxious. For a split second, he noticed Natasha from across the room and he fell quiet. His eyes welled up with tears.

"Tsarina," he whispered. "I'm sorry they…they erased my equations, they were going to take more if I didn't…I didn't…" He broke off into silent tears, his stooped shoulders shaking, his head in his hands, pulling compulsively at his hair.

"It's all right, Solvetnik," Natasha said. She returned her attention to Newmark. "What did you do to him?"

"Absolutely nothing," she replied. "We haven't harmed him in any way. I asked him some questions and when he refused to answer – a valiant attempt at loyalty, I might add – it only took one equation to be smudged from the wall before he caved. You see, I have my contacts too, Miss Romanoff, and my contacts tell me what goes on the city. I like to be aware of what is happening in Russia just as much as you do."

Natasha's jaw clenched tight. That sneaking feeling was creeping up in her gut instincts, that feeling telling her a clean getaway wouldn't happen tonight.

"What do you want?" she growled.

Newmark smirked and folded her hands in her lap. Natasha's fingers almost flinched towards the knife in her boot but she remained calm, implacable in the face of Newmark's taunting.

"Oh, don't raise your hackles at me, Miss Romanoff. I won't hurt your precious little snitch. It would be of no advantage to me, just make a bit of an inconvenience that I'd rather not deal with. I know your heart lies with Russia, that you will stop at nothing to protect your home country. I feel the same way. My people live here, I look out for them and ensure that no harm comes to them."

"What do you want?" Natasha repeated, biting off each word.

Newmark sighed. "This venture of yours against Anton Vanko. It could be…how do you say it? Lucrative, for both our interests."

Natasha stifled a groan. She didn't need Newmark mixed up in this. How did she know about it in the first place? Clearly, she had her fingers deeper into things than Natasha had planned for. Underestimating anyone, an opponent or an ally, was a fatal move on Natasha's part. She knew better than to make such a rookie mistake. She could try to deny it, send Newmark off in a different direction but she had the feeling that would be a waste of time and effort and they would wind up right back here again.

"I have friends in the KGB as well," Newmark said. "I'm no stranger to HYDRA and its tendency to destroy everything it touches. Once I heard Vanko was creating a specialized weapon, I knew HYDRA would be on the scent soon enough."

"I suppose you want those blueprints as much as everybody else."

"The more accurate question is: who doesn't want them? Vanko is a very desirable man at the moment."

"If you know all this, why did you ask me to come here?"

Newmark raised a hand and flicked two fingers forward. Gao reached into his jacket. Natasha stiffened, ready to pounce into action at the first sign of a weapon. Instead, Gao drew out a plain white envelope and set it on the table.

"Take a look," Newmark said.

All manner of toxic powder clouds, poisonous glues, dormant viruses lying in wait for the first warm touch of human skin flashed through Natasha's mind at once. Perfectly reasonable paranoia given Newmark's reputation for silent, mysterious killings.

Slowly, Natasha opened the envelope. No powders. No toxins. Just a handful of pictures tucked inside of two young children, a girl and a boy, each huddled up in their own private cells. Some pictures showed the children sleeping or coloring on paper. Others showed nothing but a blur in one cell and in the girl's cell…objects floated, suspended in the air with no strings, no support of any kind.

"These are the weapons Vanko is creating as we speak," Newmark said.

Natasha didn't reply immediately, too busy trying to make sense of the pictures. The KGB hadn't clarified what sort of weapon Vanko was working on. She had been too focused on the old wounds of Alexei's passing to ask questions. Unless they didn't know either which was a possibility, riddled with doubt as it was.

Newmark chuckled. "Your ignorance on the subject is exactly what I expected. They're human, yes, but only to a point. HYDRA cannot have them, Miss Romanoff, you understand that of course."

Piecing her composure back together, Natasha slid the pictures across the table.

"How did you come by these photos? Vanko's been in hiding for months."

"That's the unfortunate bit. They were taken before Vanko went into hiding. I'm working under the assumption that he's sent the twins elsewhere for safekeeping."

"So you're trying to hook me with outdated information?" Natasha shook her head. "Try another angle."

Newmark's mouth tightened, a mere flash of anger and then her usual cool, collected demeanor returned.

"It's more than what you have," she replied.

Another point to Newmark, Natasha thought.

"These kids could be dead for all you know," Natasha said.

"Oh no, no, they're not. They're the only ones that have survived these experiments so far."

At the look of confusion that flickered across Natasha's face, Newmark smiled again with the realization that the upper hand was still hers.

"You wouldn't tell me this if it didn't come with a price," Natasha pointed out.

"Everything has its price, true. This is particularly dear to me as these twins," she tapped the pictures with one long, perfectly polished black fingernail. "These twins are the secret to keeping my people safe. As well as yours."

Those poor kids, Natasha thought. They were going to get jerked around their entire lives, treated as objects, as weapons, rather than allowed the innocence of childhood. She knew what that was like, seen as a tool not a human being. She pushed the thoughts away, too bitter, too honest, too close to home for her liking. It wasn't her job to feel pity for these kids, no matter how many things they might have in common. She had to protect Russia first and foremost.

"What will this cost me then?" Natasha asked, gesturing at the pictures.

"I want in," Newmark said simply.

Natasha gave a short laugh of disbelief. "Not gonna happen."

"You dare to put your precious Russia at stake?" Newmark raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not the one up for discussion here," Natasha shot back. "How do I know I can trust you? How do I know you aren't lying and you doctored these photos?"

Newmark ran one finger around the rim of her teacup and cocked her head to the side. "You don't. Risks must be taken in order to gain the upper hand on your opponent, Miss Romanoff. First rule of war, though that must be common knowledge to you, of course. You're desperate, aren't you? At a dead end with Vanko, no good leads to follow up on, biding your time." She paused then added in a deeper tone. "And it's driving you crazy."

Natasha gritted her teeth. Newmark was toying with her and she _hated_ it. She tolerated no one toying with her, tossing her around as if she was a frightened, helpless mouse. There were few options left open to her at this point and none of them held much appeal. She could make a run for it but Newmark would more than likely blow Natasha's cover at the Bolshoi out of revenge for snubbing her offer and the whole job would go to pieces. Or she could take Newmark's deal and let her in, work with her to find Vanko. Natasha smelled a rat somewhere, foul and stinking, but she couldn't quite pin it down in this whole mess.

"You can't lay a finger on him," Natasha said. "The KGB needs him alive. We have questions that he'll need to answer."

That slow, cat-like smile crept across Newmark's face again in triumph. Natasha's fingers convulsively bit into the cushion to stem the rising tide of her frustration at being cornered.

"There's no need to be defensive, Miss Romanoff," she purred. "I only wish to be kept in the loop regarding Vanko and his whereabouts. Since my people will be collaborating with yours, I don't want there to be any confusion and no accidental deaths to either side. I need those twins contained and far away from HYDRA."

Newmark held out her hand. Natasha shot her a look full of barely controlled disdain but shook her hand anyway.

"I look forward to working with you, Miss Romanoff," she said.

Natasha couldn't get out of The House of Lotus fast enough. Strucker was going to shred her when he found out that she made this deal without consulting him first. She wouldn't be pulled off the job, not with her experience, but once word reached Tarasova, she'd get another earful there too.

No, Natasha decided, she didn't have to tell Strucker yet, she didn't have to tell anyone. She was the one in the field, she was the one making the calls. Her expertise was the sole reason she was put on this job, because she had experience no other KGB agent possessed. She was damn good at what she did and she would turn this around to a win in her favor just as she'd done many times before. Vanko would still be hers and all this was nothing more than a hiccup, a necessary risk she had to take to get to him. There were far shadier deals in her past than this.

Over the course of the next three days, Natasha had very little time to think about Newmark. The ballet was in overdrive with the impending premiere. Despite the need to focus on getting to Vanko, this night would make or break the ballet. Critics would be there, hungry for the first sign of a bobble or a slip-up. Natasha knew she shouldn't care that much, especially since Vanko could come out of hiding any second and her cover at the Bolshoi would no longer be necessary.

But the Bolshoi was where she met Alexei, where he taught her dance could make everything go away for a little while – her past, the Red Room, the faces of those she killed who haunted her at night. Everything. She really did want the ballet to succeed. It couldn't get in the way of her job but while she waited for Vanko to make his next move, she might as well look after one of the very few places she found solace in this world.

The night of the premiere, she felt a flutter of nerves she hadn't experienced in…years. Well before her training in the Red Room, maybe even longer than that. This was the first time she would be performing without Alexei in the audience, without him anywhere in her world and it sent her balance off kilter. Seven years had gone by and she still craved his presence, still stutter-stepped when she thought of him. It was a weak spot she couldn't afford but she never wanted to shut it out, shut _him _out, either.

The lights cast the rest of the theatre in darkness as she stepped onto the stage. There were people out there, somewhere, but she couldn't see them and she didn't want to. Alexei's face wouldn't be among them, he would never be among them but tonight they weren't the ones she was dancing for. Tonight, on her first official return to the stage after losing Alexei, she would dance for him. A handful of soft, lilting notes trickled out over the stage and swirled around her. And she began to move.

Just as Alexei had taught her, the world fell away. This could very well be the last time she allowed herself to let her guard down on the job, to stop thinking about how to get to Vanko or how Newmark would later stab her in the back. She forgot everything for a few, blissful moments in the beat of music and the pulse of movement.

All too quickly, the ballet was over and the roaring rush of applause washed over her, shattering her reverie into pieces at her feet. She could barely breathe as she took the customary bows, desperate to escape and rebuild her defenses again. The other dancers lingered, mingling with some of the more elite sponsors granted access backstage to shower them with flowers and gifts but Natasha fled to her dressing room.

Once the door was shut, Natasha pressed her back to the wall and sucked in a gulp of air, sounding more like a rattling, wheezing sob than the steadying breath she had intended. She covered her mouth with both hands and closed her eyes. It had been so much harder than she had imagined, dancing without him. It was yet another way he was slipping away from her, piece by piece. First, it was the sound of his laugh. She couldn't hear it anymore in her dreams. Then it was his touch. God, how she missed his touch, like she was the most precious thing he had ever held in his hands and not some mindless killing machine with the blood of countless lives on her hands. She didn't know it on stage but she felt it now, in every muscle, every nerve, and it ached like no pain she had ever felt before. She was saying good-bye for the last time.

A light tap came at her door then and Natasha dashed her hands over her eyes, smoothed her skirt and tipped her chin up. The world and her mission had returned, demanding to be let in. Her good-bye was done. Alexei was in the past. She had but one choice and that was to keep moving forward, always.

Natasha took one second more to ready herself then opened the door.

Mila beamed, her petite frame hidden behind a massive teddy bear. She had her arms wrapped around its neck and its legs dragged along the ground.

"We did it," she squealed. "The critics loved it, they loved you, they can't stop talking about you, Miss Romanoff."

"Where on earth did you get that bear?" she asked.

She squeezed it tighter and propped her chin atop its head between the fuzzy ears. "Henry gave it to me."

A small cough echoed off to her left. She turned to see Barton hunch up his shoulders, spread his hands, and his face flushed with a faint pink. Natasha raised an eyebrow. He must be picking up a little Russian to understand what was going on.

"Henry?" Natasha said in a flat voice, looking at Barton but directing the question to Mila.

Mila's enthusiasm never waned under Natasha's intimidating gaze. "He insisted that I call him by his first name. I tried to explain how you wouldn't approve but…"

Natasha held up a hand and Mila fell silent, nuzzling her face into the bear's fur, her eyes wide and innocent.

"Make sure you thank him," she said.

Mila's grin grew even wider if that was possible and reached up on tiptoe to kiss Natasha on both cheeks before she hurried off to her dressing room, the bear bouncing against her knees as she walked.

"Most would have brought flowers," Natasha said.

Barton shrugged. That blush still lingered a bit, she noticed.

"I thought about that but then I realized it didn't really fit her. She's a kid, for pete's sake. Besides, I didn't want to be like everybody else. She works so hard, she deserves to have a little fun. So that's how the bear happened."

Natasha nodded and paused a moment before saying, "It suites her."

The blush returned in full force but a pleased smile teased at the corners of his lips as well.

"I got you something too," he said. "Sort of. It goes along with your offer to show me around Russia."

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a rolled up, wrinkled piece of paper. He stretched it out so she could get a better look.

"A circus?" she asked.

"It's for Mila too. I get that your schedule is crazy and all, it's just for the day. I asked permission from Madame Bolishinko. She's a scary woman by the way, I see where you get it."

"You could have come to me first, you know," she said.

"Well, yeah, but I just…"

"Go, Natasha."

Natasha glanced up at Madame Bolishinko's dusky, commanding voice. Automatically, her spine straightened, her posture corrected itself, her body naturally slipping into the role of student in the presence of her mentor.

"Mr. Jones expressed concern that you've been working too hard, Mila as well," she said. "I am inclined to agree with him. Especially in light of tonight's performance, I believe you and Mila deserve a break. The rest of us can manage without you two for an afternoon. There will be plenty of time to rehearse when you return."

Natasha nodded. She hadn't planned on turning Barton down but now, with Madame Bolishinko backing him up, there was no getting out of it.

"All right," she said to Barton. "The circus it is."

When Natasha spotted Ivan waiting for her outside the theatre, the emotional weight she'd been struggling under all evening eased a little. He had never been a more welcome sight than he was now. She escaped into the back seat and kicked off her shoes with a sigh. She ached in a way that was more than just sore muscles and the fatigue that set in after the high of a performance. She'd opened herself up after seven years of shoving down all that pain when it came to Alexei and it was taking longer than she would have liked to build her walls back up again.

"How did the big night go?" Ivan asked.

"Exhausting," she muttered.

"Maybe this will help."

He waved a small rectangular box towards her, wrapped up in a red ribbon. She untied it and tugged the lid off.

"Chocolate," she breathed. Her fingers floated over the perfect, uniform domes of sweets nestled in their ruffly white wrappers. "I haven't had chocolate since I started this job."

She could hear the smile in Ivan's voice when he replied, "You never grew out of that sweet tooth. Back to the hotel then?"

Natasha turned to look out the window. "Actually, no, I think…I could use a good long drive for a while."

Ivan gave a sharp nod and steered into traffic. Neither of them spoke until they were outside the city and Natasha crawled into the front seat. She had no idea where he was taking her until the headlights swept across a rolling hill peppered with gray tombstones, jutting out of the earth like stubbly teeth.

She glanced over at Ivan, silent. Hadn't she been through enough today? Ivan reached under his seat and pulled out a bouquet of deep red roses.

"He's waiting, little one," he said. "He would have been there tonight, if he could."

Natasha's throat tightened as she accepted the roses and slid out of the car. Alexei's grave was only a few feet away but the walk felt like a lifetime, each step clawing at her, dragging her down. She nestled the roses next to his grave and brushed her fingertips over the cold stone. Alexei never missed opening night on any of her shows. He was always the first one to greet her backstage. Natasha closed her eyes at the memory, faded and gray now, as he swept her up into his arms and kissed her, smiling against her lips.

She knew she had to let him go. Seven years, she'd been holding on to a ghost, a weakness she couldn't shake. He'd always been her Achilles' heel. He still was.

Natasha didn't know how long she remained huddled on the ground, lost in thought, until Ivan came out and wrapped his jacket over her shoulders. He eased himself to the ground next to her, his movements stiff from arthritis he refused to complain about. She rested her head against his shoulder and he tucked his arm around her.

"I can't come back here anymore," she whispered.

Ivan pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I know, little one."

They were still there when the sun came up.


	8. The Russian Circus

**A/N: Thank you SO, SO much every single comment! You really do keep me going and motivated to continue writing. Every single comment has made my day. Keep being your awesome selves, my lovelies!**

**CLINT**

Romanoff had looked pissed as hell.

Odd, considering she was the one who offered the truce first. It only confirmed that this was the right move. When Clint spotted the circus poster in a coffee shop on the corner from his apartment, he knew it would be perfect for what he had in mind.

Clint refused to allow himself to think about what it would be like on circus soil again. This wasn't for him, not for closure or some other bullshit like that. This was part of the job. SHIELD training be damned, he was running on pure instinct at this point, taking a flying leap and he hoped to heaven and hell that it paid off.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice nagged at him, telling him it wasn't entirely about the job. Some of it was for Mila. She had been the first friendly face he'd met in Russia and while he knew he should be careful in light of the possibility that anyone here could get him killed over those damn weapon blueprints, it was comforting to sit down and swap stories with her. She reminded him so much of home sometimes…

The one thing Clint knew for sure was that Bobbi was less than pleased.

"I still don't see the point of your little field trip," she said on the morning he was to meet Romanoff and Mila. "SHIELD doesn't cover paid vacation time for rookies."

"It's not a vacation," Clint protested. "It's called making friends."

"You don't…" Bobbi stopped, took a breath. "That is not the focus of your mission here, Barton."

"My gut says something is off about Romanoff. Besides Mila, she's the only one I've been able to get remotely close to. Everyone else looks at me like something the cat spit up."

Bobbi stifled a laugh. "Mila has been pretty informative though so, yeah, work that angle as much as possible. And she has the _biggest_ crush on you I've ever seen."

"Stop," he groaned.

"Of course, when you brought her that giant teddy bear instead of flowers, well, who could blame her?"

Clint let his breakfast dishes fall into the sink with a deafening clatter. "I'm taking my com out."

"And then you complimented her on her dancing. That really sealed the deal right there."

"Look who's getting distracted from the mission now, huh?"

"All right, smartass. I'm still waiting for your escapade to make sense."

"I'm well aware making friends is not my objective, Bobbi. I just…I have a gut feeling about Romanoff. I mean, she had someone take a shot at me. That's worth looking into in my opinion. I want to get her out of her territory for a while and see if it rattles her a bit."

"All of Russia is Romanoff's territory," Bobbi said. "You won't rattle her."

"Quit poking holes in my plan for two seconds. I'll keep an eye on everyone else too, don't worry."

"I'm not worried. You're doing a good job, Barton. If you think this is the right call, follow it."

Clint paused as he pulled his jacket on. "Wait, was that a…?"

"Don't," she cut in, "push your luck. Take the compliment and don't say a word. Besides, if this plan goes to hell, I will rub your nose in it every day for the rest of your life."

He smirked. "Yes ma'am."

[][][]

Clint met Romanoff and Mila on the outskirts of Moscow and caravanned the rest of the way to the circus a few miles outside of the city. It was a bizarre sight, watching Romanoff's limo, spit-polished to a shine, pull into the muddy circus grounds. Everything else seemed shabby and limp next to the sharp, business-as-usual Romanoff. He fully expected her to step out of that limo dressed to the nines like she usually was in heels and furs and pearls.

Mila bounced out of the limo first and flew over to Clint. He had barely made it off his motorcycle before she tackled him in a hug, her petite body vibrating with excitement. Romanoff emerged a second later, dressed in boots, dark jeans, and a white blouse. Still a little on the fancy side, but at least she wouldn't stand out…as much.

"She's been talking the entire ride here," Romanoff said.

Mila broke away, her eyes bright. She looked nothing like the frightened, bullied girl she was when Clint first met her.

"I've never been to a circus before," she said. "Will there be acrobats? I've always wanted to see acrobats in real life."

Shit, Clint thought. There were going to be hurdles today and he knew that, he knew that as soon as he saw the poster. He had no idea he would be hit with them right from the start though. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Romanoff watching him. He had hesitated too long to answer and now she was wondering why.

"Probably," he said, forcing his voice to be lighter than he felt. "A circus isn't a proper circus without acrobats."

Mila squealed and darted ahead into the maze of games and rides, tents and booths. Clint and Romanoff followed at a slower pace while Mila drifted back on occasion only to zip off again.

"I've known Mila for years," Romanoff said. "And the only time she's been this happy is when she dances by herself for the fun of it."

"Has she ever thought about quitting the ballet?" he asked. "I mean, the schedule you keep is kind of crazy."

She shook her head. "If she has, she never mentions it. You live and breathe ballet for so long, you can't imagine breathing without it."

"And you?"

Romanoff didn't reply at first as she watched Mila interact with a mime, mirroring each other's movements. Clint knew he was walking a fine line here. If he pushed too much, Romanoff would shut down in a heartbeat. If he didn't push enough, he'd get nowhere. There were too many opportunities to wind up empty handed.

"I left for a while," Romanoff finally said. "I thought I wanted out. It might be hard work but I've come to believe it's where I belong." She shifted her gaze to him with a faint smile. "For some of us, a fresh start isn't always an option."

Oh god did Clint want to dig deep on that last comment. Something lurked there, coloring her words with shadows and regret.

"I don't suppose you'll elaborate on what you mean by that," he said.

Her smile grew wider and she shook her head. Clint shrugged.

"Worth a shot."

It wasn't as weird as Clint thought it would be, wandering the circus grounds like he usually did at home. As it turned out, Russian circuses weren't all that different from American circuses. He almost started to relax a little until Mila rushed up to them, her cheeks flushed, and tugged on his hand.

"The acrobats are starting, we're going to miss them!" she insisted.

"You and Miss Romanoff go," Clint hedged. "I'll see about getting some food for when the show is over."

And he'd be damned if Mila didn't droop like a wilted flower right before his eyes.

"Oh," she said in a small voice. "Okay."

He gritted his teeth, knowing full well he wasn't going to be able to hold out against the look on Mila's face.

"You know what?" he said. "Never mind. The food can wait. I'll come with you."

Mila brightened, bouncing on her toes, and blazed a trail through the crowd into the main tent. As they settled in the bleachers, Romanoff nudged him with her shoulder.

"Something wrong?"

"No, it's…a little cramped in here, that's all." But his voice was tighter than he'd like and Romanoff must have noticed it by the way she cast a sideways look at him. He'd have to be more careful. Nothing got by her and if he made any more slip ups, she might get suspicious and shut him out again.

The crowd fell into an expectant silence as the lights dimmed. Clint realized then that this was the first time he'd ever been a part of the audience before. He always watched from backstage or on the platform, counting down to his cue, and he didn't pay much attention to what was going on in the performance.

The spotlight centered on a lone girl, about as tiny as Mila, standing on a platform nearly brushing the top of the tent. She spread her arms, rose up on her tiptoes, and launched into the air.

Clint sucked in his breath and looked away. He waited and waited for the sound he dreaded, for her body to crumple into a heap of broken bones. The audience burst into applause and he knew she was safe, caught by another acrobat as had been practiced a thousand times in rehearsal no doubt.

Slowly, Clint stole a peek at the stage. The girl dangled from the arms of a sturdy male acrobat, suspended by a trapeze. They swung together, back and forth, back and forth, a human pendulum working the audience into a hypnotized state. Then the girl was released again, twisting and tumbling in the air.

Clint swore and rubbed a hand over his face. It would be over soon, all he had to do was wait it out. He kept his gaze trained on the floor but with every murmur and appreciative applause from the audience, he knew exactly what was going on without even seeing it happen.

Nope, he couldn't do it.

Clint pushed off his seat and plunged for the exit. He stumbled into the open aid and inhaled a deep breath into his tight lungs.

"Is everything all right?"

He turned to see Romanoff standing at the tent exit, concern mingled with wariness in her gaze.

Clint thought he nodded but he couldn't breathe, couldn't talk, couldn't think. And then he was shaking his head. Romanoff frowned and stepped towards him, placing her hand against the back of his neck. She gently pushed him to the ground.

"Sit," she commanded. "Head between your knees."

He folded like a rag doll, limp and useless, with Romanoff's hand still firm against the back of his neck.

Bobbi's voice crackled in his ear. "Barton? What's going on?"

Dammit, he couldn't handle all this at once. His breath started to come a little easier and he straightened up to meet Romanoff's gaze. Her hand slid away from him and she raised her eyebrows in a silent question.

"I'm good," he croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Really, I'm fine."

Bobbi let out a small sigh of relief in his ear. Romanoff waited, saying nothing, until Clint explained.

"I used to work at a circus. As an acrobat."

"Judging from your reaction, things didn't end well."

A flash of lightheadedness made him sway and he dipped his head again, resting his forearms on his knees. "No, no, it definitely did not. There was an accident. I couldn't catch my partner in time. She was…she was about the same age as Mila, maybe a year younger."

"I'm sorry," Romanoff whispered. It wasn't a placation either, the way everyone else said it. Give their apologies and move on as quickly as possible. Romanoff actually meant it…which was bizarre.

"Yeah, me too," he replied. "I thought I'd be okay, you know? It's been years. I was a kid, she was a kid. But when that girl in there dropped from her platform, it scared the shit out of me and I couldn't…"

The words hiccupped in his throat. Romanoff nodded.

"Let's go for a walk," she said.

"But Mila…"

"She can watch on her own. We'll catch up to each other later. I'll tell her where we're going, she probably won't even realize we're not with her."

Distantly, Clint thought he should argue. He should get right back in that tent and force himself to watch the entire performance, even if it made him sick from the festering guilt. Instead, he said nothing as Romanoff disappeared into the tent and emerged a few seconds later. She took him by the elbow and helped him to his feet.

"Why did you go through all the trouble of inviting us here," she asked, "if it raises so many bad memories?"

He shrugged. "I don't have a problem with anything else. It's the acrobats I have a hard time with and I thought I could get out of it."

"But you couldn't disappoint Mila. She's a big girl, you know. She's handled plenty of disappointment before."

"Yeah, I guess I didn't want to bring her down. Like you said, she's happy. Besides, I grew up in a circus…" At the last second, he caught Barney's name on the tip of his tongue and swallowed it. He refused to open that can of worms today and especially not to Romanoff. "Not all the memories are bad," he said.

"This might be overstepping the bounds a bit but…is that why you left? Because of the girl?"

"There were other things. I've never tried to fool myself into believing I could escape that memory. I still see her falling sometimes, right before I go to sleep. It'll never go away, I know that. A very wise ballerina once told me that a fresh start only goes so far."

Romanoff stopped and turned to face him. "Barton, what I said…"

Clint held up his hands. "You were right. The memories stay, whether you want them to or not. I'm not arguing, I'm saying you made a good point."

She pressed her lips together and nodded. They walked on for a while, taking in the sights in a comfortable silence. Clint's memories lurked around him like shadows, turning the circus surroundings into gaudy things, too bright, too cheerful. Around every turn, he expected Barney to step out with a big smile on his face or pull a prank on Clint the way he used to. This was not the direction he should be letting himself slip into. He had to keep his focus on Romanoff.

"It wasn't your fault," Romanoff said so quietly Clint almost missed it. "You didn't drop her on purpose, did you?"

"No," he replied. "One day I might believe it's not my fault but that's going to be a while still."

"What did you do after you quit? If you don't mind my asking," she hurried to add.

"I jumped around for a couple years. Whatever position the boss needed filled for a show, I was there. Oddly enough, I liked anything with heights. Tight rope, trampoline, stilts. Gives me distance, lets me see the whole picture. I fly solo though, no partners. Not after…that."

Damn it, Barton, he thought, get your head in the game already. He gave himself a hard shake and switched topics.

"Then I found out I had a knack for target practice and I ended up shooting things for a living."

Romanoff seemed to tense up for a fraction of a second. He blinked and it was gone. She was as calm and collected as ever.

"Pistols or rifles?" she asked.

He grinned. "Neither. This way, I'll show you."

Clint spotted it on the way in, the archery range at the far side of the circus. It was fenced off, sequestered from any stray children who might wander between targets and archers. He plucked a bow and quiver full of arrows from the rack.

"I always preferred the silence and precision of these beauties," he said.

He held the bow out to Romanoff. She hesitated then accepted it and stepped up to the firing line.

"Put one hand here," Clint directed, moving her left hand to the front of the bow. "And your other hand here." He placed her right hand on the string. "Keep your chin up and don't forget to breathe."

Her back was ramrod straight, her legs braced apart in a solid stance. Clint frowned. She looked like she knew exactly what she was doing…although that wouldn't surprise him at this point. God only knew how many tricks the woman had up her sleeve.

Clint slid an arrow from the quiver and placed it in Romanoff's fingers. She fumbled to adjust her grip and nearly dropped the arrow. Clint came up behind her and guided her hands into place again. His chin rested over her shoulder while her back brushed against his chest. She leaned into him slightly, though whether it was on purpose or because he was in her space with very little room to move, he couldn't tell.

"Bring the arrow up," he said. "And let it touch your cheek, like a kiss."

Romanoff glanced over her shoulder at him, her face mere inches away from his. And a sudden awareness of the situation jolted through Clint's brain like an electric shock. He had never been this close to Romanoff before. Close enough to see the flecks of blue and gold in her green eyes. Close enough to see the soft red curl of hair brushing against her chin. Close enough to feel her breath on his cheek…

Holy.

_Shit._

What the hell was he _doing_? Sending all the wrong signals, that's what he was doing. He shouldn't be this close, this personal, this…dear god…this _intimate_ with a woman who had already demonstrated her ability to have him killed at the snap of her pretty little fingers. Not the best plan. Quite possibly the worst plan he'd ever had.

It wasn't like he meant to do it, not like that mattered right now. He had been so focused on getting Romanoff to hold the bow and arrow properly that he completely forgot what his close proximity would look like. God, he was an idiot sometimes.

Clint took a large step to the side. Distance, dammit, he needed distance.

"So, yeah," he said. "Just uh…fire…whenever. Whenever you're ready. At the target. There."

Stop talking, he told himself, just stop. He could have sworn he heard Bobbi laughing on the other end of the com except there was no way she could see what was going on. Not unless he told her and that was never going to happen. Ever. He better pull himself together before Romanoff started asking questions.

Romanoff let the arrow fly and it sank into the target, dead center. Clint's shoulders slumped.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" he accused.

A sly smile teased at her lips. "I took a few lessons growing up."

"And you let me carry on like that and everything."

She shrugged and offered the bow back. "It's been so long, I didn't think I'd remember. But I appreciated the refresher, you're an excellent teacher. Go on, your turn."

Clint took the bow, tugging on the string, testing it. His own enhanced bow sat in a box in his apartment, untouched since he set foot on Russian soil. SHIELD insisted on guns which sucked but it was practical and he understood that. A gun was easier to conceal but he sure missed his bow, the smooth feel of it in his hands, the comfort it always carried every time he notched an arrow, ready to go. This cheap circus bow wasn't the same by any stretch of the imagination.

Clint stepped up to the firing line and when he pulled the string into firing position, his shoulders tight and straight as a ruler, everything else fell away. He forgot about SHIELD, Russia, Romanoff, Barney, second guessing the intentions of every single person he met. They all disappeared in the face of these familiar motions, things he knew he could do well, the notching of the arrow, the steady exhale of his breath, his attention zeroed in on the target. For one blissful moment, nothing else mattered and he was home again.

Clint released the arrow and as it sang through the air, he had another arrow from the quiver notched and fired. And another. And another. Until the quiver was empty. Five arrows lay embedded in the target.

Slowly, the rest of the world came into focus again – the hum of the crowd, the tinkling music from the rides, the squeals of children laughing.

"Impressive doesn't seem to do it justice," Romanoff said.

He shrugged. "You breathe ballet, I breathe this."

Romanoff was spared a response by her phone ringing in her back pocket. She held it up.

"The acrobats are done. Mila wants to know where we are."

Clint and Romanoff met up with Mila again by the food vendors, and Mila launched into a detailed account of the show. Clint managed to distract her for a precious few minutes with bright pink cotton candy which earned a stern look from Romanoff.

"That's not a real meal," she said.

"It's circus food," Clint replied. "Of course it doesn't count as a real meal. That's not why we're here."

"There are some power bars in the limo, I'll go get them."

He caught her elbow and shoved a plate of greasy food into her hands. He had no idea what it was, he hadn't managed to decipher that much Russian yet, but it was covered in powdered sugar and it was fried. All the important food groups covered.

"No power bars today," he said.

Romanoff eyed the food and took it but, he noticed, she didn't touch a bite of it. Mila on the other hand was more than happy to eat anything set in front of her. When the last of the food was finished off, Clint turned to Mila.

"Where to next? Rides? Games? Hall of horrors?" he asked.

Mila wrinkled her nose at the last one and shook her head. "Games sound good, let's do those."

Clint and Mila dueled together over games, especially the ring toss, and Clint soon found out he didn't have to go easy on Mila at all. She wiped the floor with him. Romanoff stood back, watching Mila win over and over no matter how hard Clint tried to beat her.

"You've finally met your match, I see," she said.

"I thought I'd let her win a few rounds," he whispered. "I'd be lucky if she let _me _win every once in a while."

Just when Clint was about to give up, his last ring caught on the bottle neck instead of Mila's and he won but she played the good sport and cheered with him. The attendant gestured to the rack of prizes overhead, row upon row of stuffed animals and toys.

"Pick your prize," the attendant said.

Clint turned to Romanoff. "Go ahead."

"What? No, you earned it, not me."

"Yeah, and I'm asking you to pick it for me."

She narrowed her eyes then scanned the shelf of prizes and pointed. "That one."

Clint would have guessed she was joking except for the decisiveness in her tone. The attendant took down a Russian stacking doll with pink cheeks, bright blue and gold flowers on a red background, and handed it to Clint.

"That thing is creepy," he said.

Romanoff accepted the doll with an accusing look directed at Clint. "No, it's not," she argued. "They're cute. I used to play with these for hours."

"I'm having a hard time imagining you playing with anything. I always thought you were pirouetting from birth."

"Very funny. I was a child once, I had toys just like everybody else. Don't make it sound like it's such a hard thing to believe."

"I'll take your word for it. What's the appeal though? You can't…dress 'em up or anything."

She ran her fingers over the shiny lacquered surface of the doll, a gesture that almost appeared affectionate.

"I liked how deceiving they could be," she said in a distracted voice, never taking her gaze away from the toy in her hands. "On the outside, you see one doll. Open it up and you find many more dolls. My father used to tell me that people are like that too and I've never forgotten it since."

"Well, that explains a lot," Clint remarked in a dry tone.

Romanoff glanced up sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Relax, it's a joke. I only meant that it makes sense. On the outside, you're a hard working ballerina who takes no shit from anybody, including me. Especially me. On the inside, you secretly have a weird thing for creepy dolls."

She shoved him in the shoulder.

[][][]

They stayed at the circus until well after sundown and the lights flared to life, pitching the grounds into an otherworldly golden glow. Mila stifled a yawn, the signal that her energy was finally dying down and the day was coming to a close.

"We should get going," Romanoff said.

Mila groaned but Romanoff shook her head. "It's back to work for the both of us tomorrow. No complaining."

"Yes Miss Romanoff," Mila sighed.

Clint walked Mila and Romanoff back to the limo. The chauffeur opened the door for Mila but Romanoff paused and turned to Clint.

"Mila had a good time today, Barton," she said. "I had no idea a break would be so good for her."

"What about you? It wasn't a total waste of time, I hope."

She smiled and held up the doll. "I had a good time too. Thank you."

Clint backed up and started heading to his bike when the deafening crack of a gunshot made him drop to his knees on instinct. He crouched low to the ground and his gaze darted to Romanoff's limo, dread churning in his stomach at what he might see.

"Barton?" Bobbi said. "Did someone take another shot at you?"

"Not at me," he said.

Romanoff was on her knees, bent over with her back facing him. He caught a flash of her hands, her fingers stained with blood. He took a quick glance around but there were no further signs of a shooter.

"Call the police and an ambulance," Clint told Bobbi before he darted to the limo, staying low to the ground as he moved. He peered into the open door and found Mila huddled in the seat, shaking. He motioned for her to stay and moved on to Romanoff.

The chauffeur lay on the ground, his head in Romanoff's lap as a red pool seeped out beneath him into the dirt. Romanoff pressed her hands to a bullet wound in his throat, blood coating her arms up to her elbows, soaking through her white blouse in a garish red blossom.

"Romanoff," he whispered.

She didn't answer and Clint tried again only to be met with the same lack of response. He inched closer and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Natasha," he said. "You have to take cover."

She shook her head, her breath panicked and fast, too fast. "No, he's bleeding out, I'm not leaving him."

Clint glanced down at the chauffeur, at Romanoff's bloodied hands still desperately wrapped around his neck in an effort to keep the life from pumping out of his veins. The chauffeur's eyes stared up at the sky, blank, empty. Clint slid his hand around the back of Romanoff's neck as she had done to him earlier in the day. This time she leaned into him on purpose, her shoulder pressed into his chest.

"He's gone, Natasha," he said. "You can't help him."

Romanoff squeezed her eyes shut and drew in a trembling breath but she didn't let go.

"This wasn't a random attack," she said, grinding out each word as if it took a tremendous amount of effort.

"What?"

"He took the bullet for me. He blocked it…with himself."

Clint rubbed a hand over his face and swore under his breath. This was flying out of control way too quickly. He moved his hand to Romanoff's elbow in a tight grip, turning her to look at him.

"What are you saying? Did someone do this on purpose? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

Her gaze slowly came into focus and she frowned. She wiped a hand across her forehead, leaving a smear of blood behind.

"I don't…maybe…I don't know."

Clint had never seen her so disoriented and out of sorts before. She always maintained a calm and controlled persona but this had put her on her ear. He had to get Romanoff and Mila out of here. Romanoff could argue with him about it later, he didn't care.

Clint wrapped his hands around her blood-stained ones and pulled her fingers away one by one. The tiniest, strangled sob escaped her lips but there were no tears, not yet anyway. She was breaking, crumbling right in front of him, but somehow she was holding the pieces together for a little while longer.

"Come on," he coaxed. "We have to go. We have to get Mila to safety."

That seemed to get through to her. She took in a shuddering breath and her eyes cleared a little.

"Take the limo," she croaked.

"But…"

"Take it," she repeated, more insistent this time. "He doesn't need…."

The words caught in her throat and Clint squeezed her arm.

"Right, I got it. Get in with Mila. She's scared out of her wits."

For the first time since he'd known Romanoff, she followed his instructions. It felt as if the world had turned upside down in the blink of an eye. As Clint climbed into the front seat, he realized he hadn't exactly thought this part out yet. He had no idea where she lived but judging by the way she dressed, it would be some high end place where she certainly couldn't be seen in her current state.

Clint turned the key and stepped on the gas. For now, Mila and Romanoff could stay at his place, at least until he got this mess sorted out. In hindsight, he would no doubt deem it a stupid move, but he didn't know what else to do. The normally impervious, implacable, immovable Romanoff was shaking like a leaf and starting to hyperventilate. He might have contributed it to shock since she had just witnessed someone get shot but that wasn't the only reason she was crashing hard. That chauffeur meant something to her. Clint had no idea what and he wasn't about to ask. She had refused to leave his side though, tried to stop the life blood from spilling from his neck with her own hands.

Clint pulled up outside of his apartment and hesitated for only a second before he took the com out and stuffed it in his pocket. He couldn't have Bobbi listening in on him, not right now.

"Sorry, Bobbi," he muttered.

He tucked Mila under one arm and half-supported Romanoff with the other as they made their up the stairs to his apartment. Once they were inside, he nodded to Mila.

"Wrap yourself in a blanket, get some food," he said. "Take it easy and I'll be right back, I promise."

He steered Romanoff into the tiny bathroom and shut the door. He flipped on the shower until it was blazing hot and steam fogged up the mirror. He pulled her into the tub and under the water with him, still fully clothed.

"Get cleaned up," he said. "I'll be outside with Mila."

Clint began to leave the bathroom to give her privacy then paused at the doorway, his hand on the knob. He took one last glance at Romanoff to make sure she was okay.

She wasn't. She was far from okay.

Romanoff stood in the shower, frozen, staring at the blood on her hands, running down her arms in rivers of red. She made no move to wash it off. It looked like she didn't even know how, lost as she was in a tide of shock and grief.

Without a word, Clint stepped into the shower with her, scrubbing at her hands. He didn't stop until her skin blushed a deep pink and the water ran clear again. He wiped the blood from her face, one hand resting against her cheek to keep her grounded. She still wasn't looking at him even though he was standing in front of her. She stared past him, _through_ him, and it scared the hell out of him. He had wanted to rattle her, sure, but not like this. This wasn't rattled, this was…falling apart.

He tried to scrub the blood from her shirt but there was too much and the fabric was sticking to her skin, not helping the situation at all. For a split second, he thought about leaving it alone, she could change later. But she needed that blood out of her sight as soon as possible. Her fingers dug into his forearms and she bowed her head as her shoulders shook.

There it was. She'd finally broken.

Before he could think about it any further, Clint stripped off her shirt and tossed it in the trash. She would definitely be ripping him to pieces later but he couldn't care less at the moment. Seeing her like this, it felt wrong and he hated it. He wanted to see that spark, that fire back in her eyes again.

Romanoff sagged to the floor of the tub and Clint went with her, wrapping his arms around her. She didn't push him away, she didn't chew him out. She just pressed her face against his shoulder and cried as the shower water turned icy cold around them.


	9. HYDRA rises

**NATASHA**

Ivan.

That's all she could think about. Ivan, over and over.

Ivan, who stayed by her side when she was little as she cried for her dead parents until she fell asleep.

Ivan, who was the first person she saw upon her graduation from the Red Room, terrified that she had lost every speck of her humanity during training. And then he smiled and called her his "little one" and her heart sang.

Ivan, who had insisted she allow herself time to grieve properly for Alexei rather than drowning herself in her job.

_Ivan._

Just as Alexei found his way into Natasha's dreams, turning them into nightmares as he died in her arms over and over, Ivan did the same. There was blood, so much blood, too much blood. How many times had she dreaded Ivan getting hurt because of her? How many times had she woken up in a cold sweat after imagining Ivan dead when she couldn't save him?

Now it was true. The nightmare was real.

Slowly, painfully, Natasha woke. There was no escape now, not in sleep, not in waking. Piece by piece, her surroundings came into focus. The pale, chipped ceramic surface of a bathtub. The slightly damp fabric of a t-shirt against her cheek. The comforting warmth of a hand pressed to the bare skin of her back…

….bare….skin….

Realization flooded through her mind all at once. She'd fallen asleep, tangled up with Barton in his bathtub. Her shirt was gone and she was curled around him in a way she most definitely should not be.

Natasha jerked upright, driving her elbow into Barton's ribs only partly by accident as she scrambled out of the tub to the far side of the room. She crossed her arms over herself, shivering without Barton's body heat to stave off the chill air. Barton rubbed at his ribs, alternating between casting awkward glances at her then looking away.

"Out," she said.

"I didn't mean to…"

"Get. Out."

Without a word, Barton obeyed, studiously keeping his gaze averted. As soon as the door was shut, she covered her face with her hands. She should have known better than to let her emotions take over like that. She had put Ivan above everything else, the job, her training, her own well-being. It was only sheer luck that had saved her from getting killed because of it.

Well. A little luck and a lot of Barton's help, as much as she hated to admit it.

Natasha braced herself against the sink, refusing to look in the mirror. The last thing she wanted was to see how wrecked she was. She forced herself to focus, to regain her footing and get back on track. Ivan couldn't take up space in her head right now, she had to figure out who took that shot first.

A light tap on the door made her flinch.

"Sorry to bother you," Barton said in a muffled whisper. "But I thought you'd like to know there's a clean shirt out here on the chair whenever you need it."

Natasha said nothing, waiting for his footsteps to recede before she inched the door open and peeked out. Barton was in the small kitchen, his back turned to her as he worked at the stove. Mila lay curled up in the armchair on the far side of the apartment, a blanket tucked around her shoulders.

Natasha snatched up the shirt and shut the door. Barton had taken care of Mila. Another mark against her. Natasha should have been the one to look out for Mila, not Barton. She sighed and rubbed her forehead, frustration blooming into a throbbing headache. Not only had she put herself at risk for totally losing it in the field but she had put Mila at risk as well. The thought only poured more fuel on the already raging wildfire of guilt and anger in her chest.

But it didn't matter. She couldn't let it cloud her reasoning. Just because Barton had looked out for them didn't change things. For all Natasha knew, the whole situation could have been rigged, a ploy to get in her good graces. She'd seen it before. Barton could have employed a shooter to take Ivan out, leaving Barton in the perfect position to get close her, get her to open up to him.

Granted, there was no proof to back her up. Yet. If there was any, she'd hunt it down. All she needed was one little piece of evidence to either crucify Barton and seal his involvement in Ivan's death or let him off the hook. She didn't care one way or the other whether Barton was innocent or guilty, but she wanted answers and she wanted them now.

Natasha gritted her teeth, squared her shoulders, and forced herself to take a good look at her surroundings, cataloging what she saw, pushing herself back into the job. Cold, hard facts she could deal with. Everything else would have to wait and that included grieving for Ivan.

Natasha turned to the shirt in her hand. The devil was always in the details. Start small, start simple. The fabric was threadbare and soft against her fingers, probably an old favorite Barton had worn countless times. JOHNNY CASH was stamped in large faded white lettering across the front. A country music fan then, which made sense. Barton was personable, friendly, eager to help out, as he had demonstrated with Mila time and time again. His taste in music was humble and down to earth just like him.

Natasha pulled the shirt over her head and switched her attention to take in the room itself. The bathroom was grungy, mold shadowing the corners in gray-green splotches. No window meant no escape route if necessary. She opened the mirror cabinet and found a scant amount of personal toiletries – a disposable razor, deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste…and that was it. Barton had worked at the Bolshoi for a couple months by now, he should have been thoroughly moved into his apartment already. Living under sparse means was one thing, but this wasn't just sparse. This was a man used to a life on the go, never staying in one spot for more than a few months at a time before he moved on. It added up though, with what he told her about his life at the circus. At least that part of his story checked out. Now to sort out the rest.

Natasha washed her face, brushed her hair back, and readied herself to face Barton. Precious few people had ever seen her composure slip like that. Natasha swayed for a moment at the thought. Those precious few had been Alexei and Ivan. They were the only ones she ever let her guard down for. And now…

Natasha glared at the door. No, she couldn't do this, she wouldn't. Mila was alone on the other side of the apartment. Barton was between them. Barton with his surprising amount of level-headedness under the threat of gunshots. Barton with his flawless sharp-shooting skills. Barton who was still a suspect.

That did it. Just as she had practiced a thousand times in the Red Room, she felt the armor slide into place, shutting down the soft, vulnerable thoughts that made her a target. She felt her mind switch gears, centered only on thoughts of rooting out information pertinent to the survival of the KGB, of Russia, of Mila, of herself. She tipped her chin up and opened the door, stepping out of the comforting shell of the bathroom and into Barton's apartment, into the field once again.

Natasha Romanoff, KGB agent, world class assassin was back in the game.

At the sound of the bathroom door opening, Barton turned away from the stove. The smell of eggs, spices, and meat swirled in the room, making her stomach churn.

"Hey," he said. He paused as he looked her up and down, seemed about ready to say something then changed his mind. "You all right?" he asked softly.

Of course she wasn't all right, she was far from all right, but she wasn't going to let it slow her down. She never did before, she wouldn't start now.

"Mila and I both are in your debt," she said, "for what you did yesterday."

Barton shook his head. "I only did what anyone else would have done." He flipped the stove off and scraped food onto three separate plates. He slid one plate of eggs and sausage across the counter to her. "You should eat something, you hardly touched anything yesterday."

Natasha held up her hands in refusal. "That's very kind of you but we've intruded long enough. We should be getting back anyway."

Barton's fork paused in mid-air as he stared at her. "You're not serious."

"Of course I am. No one knows where we are, once the news of…" she paused then plowed on. "Once the news reaches Madame Bolishinko and the other dancers, they'll be worried sick about us."

He set his fork down with enough force to send a spray of scrambled eggs skipping and bouncing across the countertop.

"First of all, 'we've intruded long enough'? That's bullshit and you know it. Second of all, someone tried to kill you yesterday. Your chauffeur is d…" he stopped, pressed his lips together as if holding the words in by sheer willpower. "Do you really think it's a good idea to be on stage, making yourself an even bigger target?"

Natasha made no reply, simply returned his stare straight on.

"Look," he sighed, his voice quieter this time. "I'm not blind and I'm not stupid. You're wrapped up in some kind of trouble, that's pretty obvious. And I know, no matter how many times I ask you, you're not going to tell me what's going on until you're ready."

"Smart man," she said.

"I just have one question."

She nodded. "I can't make any promises whether I'll be able to answer or not." That damned bug Solvetnik placed for her was still under the kitchen sink, less than two feet away from where they were standing. Recording every word they said. The last thing she needed was Barton spouting something she didn't want someone else hearing later on.

"Is Mila involved?" he whispered.

Natasha hesitated. The dread in his eyes was too deep, too realistic to be faked. She couldn't vouch for the rest of the conversation, but here, that small, simple question sat between them, vulnerable, raw, a tentative thread of hope pulling them together. And it terrified her. After last night, after falling apart in front of Barton and letting her defenses crumble completely, she didn't want the bittersweet taste of vulnerability back again. At least this time, she didn't have to fabricate any lies to defend herself with. The truth would be more than enough.

"No," she said. "Mila has nothing to do with it."

Barton let out a quiet breath and his shoulders sagged with relief. Natasha might still have her reserves about Barton when it came to her mission, but one thing she knew for certain, in that moment - Barton's concern for Mila was real.

"Thank you," he said softly.

She nodded. "On that note, we really should be going."

"I'll call a cab for you," he said.

"No, no, that won't be necessary. Do you still have Iv…the limo?"

"Yeah, it's parked two blocks over in an alley. Didn't think it should be out in the open for everybody to see. I don't exactly live in the snazzy part of town, you know."

"Good," she said. "We'll take that."

"But the driver's window was shot clean through. Won't you need that for evidence?"

"Not in this case."

Natasha nudged Mila awake, herding her towards the door while she was still half-asleep before the shock of yesterday could kick in again. Once she reached the door, Barton put a hand on her arm and she paused to look at him.

"Be careful out there, okay?" he said.

That was real too. Natasha's stomach flip-flopped. She wanted no one's concern for her to be real. The last two people who cared for her wound up dead.

"I will," she said.

Barton insisted on walking them to the limo to make sure Natasha and Mila were safe. It took a considerable amount of effort to convince him to leave, but when he finally did, she went into high gear. She hailed a cab for Mila, despite Mila's protests. Natasha would have preferred to see Mile home herself, but Mila wasn't the target here, nothing would happen to her.

Once Mila was taken care of, Natasha turned to face the limo. She took a breath and slid into the front seat. She tried not to notice the familiar smell of Ivan that washed over her. Old musty books. Roses. Chocolates. That spicy aftershave he used ever since she was little. He never changed it, even when it was discontinued in Russia and he had to order it from Turkey, all because he knew just how much Natasha loved the smell of that aftershave…

Natasha gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles went white. She turned the key in the ignition and headed out, waiting until she was at least three blocks away from Barton's apartment and she hadn't been followed before she called Strucker.

"It's been two weeks, Romanoff," he said. "A guy would think you're not interested when you don't write, you don't call, nothing."

"No games today, Strucker," she replied. "Somebody tried to kill me. They got Ivan instead."

"I heard. I know how close you two were."

There wasn't a hint of pity or remorse in his voice, not that Natasha wanted or expected it. Strucker was good for her to be around. He had been a part of the KGB roughly the same amount of time as she had. He was all business, always had been, always would be. And that was exactly what she needed to keep her mind on the mission rather than slipping back to Ivan.

"Do we have any clues as to who took the shot?" Natasha asked.

"About that…" Strucker paused.

"What?" she demanded. "Out with it, I'm done waiting."

"It was a kill order, Romanoff," he said.

"By who?"

Strucker hesitated and she wanted to scream at him, she wanted to make him tell her and stop dragging this out, all because he had a weakness for a dramatic flair to everything he did. But she remained calm and waited. Losing her temper would get her nowhere.

"Chairman Tarasova," Strucker finally said.

Natasha was silent, her brain firing through thousands of possibilities as to why her boss would have tried to take her out while she was on a mission. She hadn't uncovered anything particularly sensitive, she didn't think so anyway. There was the bit about the experiments Newmark had given her, but she had no idea how that could link back to Tarasova.

"Why?" Natasha asked at last. "Why would she want me killed?"

Strucker's voice was low and quiet when he spoke. "Are you in your apartment?"

"No…"

"Good, Tarasova has it bugged. I wasn't sure until this point, that's why I didn't mention it, but…I've had my suspicions for a while that the KGB has been looking for a way to get rid of you quietly. This only confirms it."

"That's a serious accusation, Strucker," Natasha growled. "You can't just throw that around."

"You're the one who was nearly killed yesterday on her order. You're one of the best, Romanoff, you know that, everyone knows that. And Tarasova wants to make sure you don't find out what she's got her fingers in, what the KGB is doing."

"Which is what?"

"The proof will be waiting in your room," he said.

"That doesn't answer my question, Strucker," Natasha snapped.

"I'll explain, Romanoff, don't worry. But you need to see the evidence first for things to make sense."

Natasha hung up, letting her thoughts run wild as she made her way back to her apartment. By now, Tarasova would know Natasha was still alive and she would keep coming until the job was done. But why? Tarasova was the one who assigned her this case in the first place. The pieces weren't fitting no matter which way she tried to put them together.

Natasha ditched the limo in an abandoned fishing yard on the south side of Moscow, along the river. She did a quick once over through the interior, wiping down fingerprints. When she opened the passenger door to get rid of Mila's fingerprints, the little red Russian stacking doll rolled out from under the driver's seat.

Natasha hesitated then picked it up. Ivan had given her a set of stacking dolls when she was little, after her parents died and she cried herself to sleep night after night. It was the only thing to keep her calm, keep her mind occupied with the puzzle of how so many dolls could fit inside one doll. Natasha ran her fingers over the delicate features of the doll's face then tucked it into her pocket, wrestling with the anger boiling in her chest. She couldn't be angry, she couldn't afford it. Anger clouded her judgement, made her do stupid things. She wanted answers, not rage. She wanted to look Tarasova in the eye and find out if she had ordered the hit that took Ivan out instead of Natasha. She wanted to know _why_.

When Natasha made it back to her apartment, the envelope was waiting just inside her door as Strucker said it would be. She ripped it open and pulled out a sheaf of papers, at least an inch thick, composed of file after file of KGB agents. As she flicked through it, one disturbing trend reared its ugly head. Bold red letters stamped KILL ORDER across their faces. Every agent was dead. Some deaths had been labeled "accidents," others, "natural causes," but it didn't matter what was recorded in the file. Information like that was all too easily tampered with. All these agents, possibly fifty or more, were dead. And when she turned the last page, her own face stared back at her, the red letters like blood on the pale white page.

So it was true then. Tarasova had given the command to have Natasha assassinated.

Natasha didn't hesitate. Her training slid into place and locked around her. She destroyed the files, burning them in the bathtub and flushing the ashes down the toilet. She stuffed an extra set of clothes into a backpack, along with her widow bite bracelets, a pistol, a wad of cash, her laptop and her phone.

It was time to disappear.

[][][]

Tarasova's apartment was small and cozy, with pictures on nearly every surface. She didn't have children, Natasha knew that, but there were pictures of children, of family reunions with Tarasova holding a baby. More pictures were on the refrigerator and framed in the hallway, drawings rendered in crayon by a young child, with a messy scrawled signature in the bottom left corner reading, "Anna." An aunt most likely, and a proud one.

Natasha made herself comfortable in the worn brown armchair across from the front door. She took her time rolling the silencer into place on the muzzle of her pistol then set the pistol on the arm of the chair next to her.

And she waited.

This was always the part Natasha could do well, the waiting. Someone inevitably slipped up, grew impatient, or became bored. But she never did. It was only a matter of time before she would have Tarasova in her sights…

The metallic scratching click of a key in a lock snapped Natasha to attention. The door slid open and a high pitched beeping echoed throughout the apartment. Tarasova shuffled in, her jacket draped over her arm. She kicked off her heels and turned to the alarm pad on the wall, punched in a few numbers, and sighed. She flicked on the light in the kitchen, set her jacket on a chair…and that was all Natasha needed to see. Tarasova was unarmed, oblivious, extremely trusting for a woman who had ordered the deaths of how many KGB agents?

Natasha picked up her pistol and cleared her throat.

Tarasova spun around, her eyes wide, then let out a breath of relief and sagged against the counter.

"Romanoff, you scared me half to death," she said. "I thought you were dead."

"Hate to disappoint you," Natasha said. She waved the pistol at a chair across from her. "Take a seat. It's time we had a little chat."

Tarasova frowned, but remained where she stood. "What's going on?"

"I could ask you the same thing. After all, you were the one who wanted me killed. You should know by now I don't appreciate it when people try to kill me. It tends to annoy me."

"Romanoff, I have no idea what you're talking about. I've been working to find your body all this time when I heard about Ivan."

"Don't say his name," Natasha growled. "Sit. Down."

Tarasova clamped her mouth shut and perched on the edge of the chair across from Natasha. "Would you kindly start from the beginning?" she asked, her voice tense, her tone tight with barely contained irritation that one of her subordinates should be talking to her this way.

"You can come in now," Natasha called.

From Tarasova's bedroom, a tall shadow separated itself from the hallway and Strucker glided forward into the light.

"Good evening, Irina," he said.

Tarasova cast him a sour look. "Someone better tell me what the hell is going on before I start firing people."

Strucker tossed a stack of files into her lap and she jumped.

"You've been getting agents killed for years now it seems," he said as he eased himself onto the sofa across from her, his arms spread out on the back, his legs propped up on the glass coffee table which made Tarasova scowl but she wisely kept her mouth shut.

"That is ridiculous, William," she replied. "I would do no such thing."

"Look at the files," Natasha said. "Look at their faces and say that again."

Tarasova obeyed, flipping through the files then shrugged. "These were all either accidental or natural deaths."

"You know that doesn't mean anything," Natasha pointed out.

"Actually, Romanoff, I don't. These are sealed files that neither of you have clearance for. How did you get these?"

"Classic psych one-oh-one right there," Strucker said. "Avoiding answering the question at hand with another question. Denial at its finest."

"Yes," Tarasova spat. "Yes, I'm denying these wild accusations that you have no basis for."

Strucker reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, handing it over to Natasha this time. Without moving her pistol away from Tarasova, she accepted it and opened it. Alexei stared back at her, KILL ORDER marring the face she loved so much.

Natasha's fingers tightened around the pistol and she slowly raised her gaze to Tarasova.

"Why?" Natasha asked, her voice dangerously low. "That's all I keep thinking. Why? Why would you do this?"

Tarasova said nothing. After several moments of silence, Strucker answered for her.

"Money. Power," he said softly. "It does things to a person. You, Alexei, countless other agents, you were on your way to lead the committee and you had to be taken out before Chairman Tarasova was no longer Chairman anymore."

"William…" Tarasova growled. "You are planting outrageous lies in my agents' heads and I won't..."

"Did you put the kill order on Alexei?" Natasha cut in.

Tarasova's gaze flicked away from Strucker and fell on Natasha. Her voice was steady and even as she replied, "No. I did not."

"Wrong answer. Did you put the kill order on me?"

"No, Romanoff, I swear, I didn't."

Natasha shook her head once. "Wrong answer. And unlucky for you, I don't have the generosity for a third strike."

And she pulled the trigger.

[][][]

Natasha felt nothing as she stepped onto the sidewalk outside of Tarasova's apartment. No anger, no relief. Just perfectly, completely, comfortably blank. There were others, Strucker had said, others in the committee who would come for her now that they saw her as a threat to their precious positions of power.

As Strucker stepped up beside her, a black Suburban rolled up to the curb in front of them. The door popped open but he made no move to get in. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and raised his eyes to the dark sky.

"You should have told me about Alexei earlier," Natasha said without looking at him.

He nodded. "I considered that. But I was hoping Irina would have confessed before I had to show you."

"Well, she didn't."

"No."

A pause stretched between them, neither awkward nor easy, it simply…was, mirroring how Natasha felt now. Just existing. A machine with well-oiled parts moving from one mission to another.

"And the next order of business?" Strucker asked.

"Find the other corrupt committee members of course," Natasha replied. "Never leave a job half-finished."

He nodded. "That's a bit much for one person to take on by themselves. You're good, Romanoff, but not that good. You can't possibly do that all on your own."

She met his gaze head on. "Watch me."

Natasha started heading down the sidewalk, away from Strucker, when he called out, "I have a proposal, if you care to hear it."

She stopped and gritted her teeth. She wanted to work alone for a while. After dedicating her life to the KGB and watching all those years destroyed in less than twenty-four hours, she had little desire to spend any time collaborating with anyone. But, at the same time, there were other agents at risk now, not just herself. Especially with Tarasova out of the picture, those agents had a ticking clock over their heads and they had no idea the numbers were running down at lightning speed.

Slowly, Natasha turned around. "Spit it out then."

Strucker paused then shook his head. "Not that simple, I'm afraid. We've got a lot to talk about, Romanoff. And certainly not here. Someone will find out about Irina soon and I don't wish to be anywhere near here when they do." He gestured to the car. "Ladies first."

"Just tell me, Strucker, I'm not in the mood for tip-toing around."

He sighed. "All right, if you insist." He leaned into the car and said to someone in the front seat, "Could you come out here, sweetheart?"

The passenger door opened. And Natasha did a double-take as she watched Galina Nemirovsky glide out of the car and loop her arm into the crook of Strucker's elbow.

"Mind telling me what the hell is going on here already?" Natasha growled. "I've had enough surprises for the week, thank you very much."

Strucker kissed Nemirovsky's hand. "I hate to pull such an act of duplicity with you, Romanoff, but we had to test you, to see how you held up."

"_Test_ me?" she asked, incredulous. "What do you mean, test me?"

"Galina, as well as several others, and myself, we're part of an organization within the KGB. We've been looking to stop these killings for a while. Unfortunately, more often than not, we've been a bit late and couldn't stop them in time."

"How long?" she demanded.

Strucker frowned. "Pardon?"

"How long have you been a double agent?"

He hesitated. "Twenty years."

Natasha looked away, willing herself to remain calm. "That's almost the entire time I've worked with you. And you never said a word until now. You could have stopped all of this if you'd told me about in the first place."

"No, he couldn't," Nemirovsky cut in. "He couldn't jeopardize himself like that without knowing whether or not you would turn him in."

Natasha's gaze flicked over to her. "I wasn't talking to you."

Strucker patted Nemirovsky's hand, kissed her cheek, whispered to her, "Why don't you go wait in the car, sweetheart? We'll be along in a moment."

Natasha waited until Nemirovsky was in the car and the door was shut before she turned on Strucker with full force.

"I've been watching her for months, what is she doing here? Damn it, Strucker, she could be a HYDRA agent for all we know."

"She is."

Natasha froze. Those two simple words hung in the cool night air, heavy with meaning.

"What?" she hissed.

Strucker reached into the car and pulled out a thick white file, the red HYDRA logo printed smack in the middle, the fiery skull glaring back at her, daring her to open it and find out what forbidden fruits lay inside.

"You'll find Galina's information in there," Strucker said. "As well as mine."

Natasha retreated a step, shaking her head over and over. No, none of this made sense. How could she have missed this? How could she have been working with a HYDRA agent for years, all the while hunting down other HYDRA agents in the KGB?

"I know this must be confusing for you…" Strucker said quietly.

"Damn right it is," Natasha replied.

"I promise, Romanoff, we're not the bad guys. Tarasova is. Every person in the KGB who wants you dead because they see you as a threat, they're the ones you should be worried about. Look at me." Strucker spread his arms out to either side. "I'm not trying to kill you. I'm trying to help you. Haven't I watched your back after all these years? Tarasova sure as hell didn't do that."

Natasha crossed her arms, still unsure how she felt about all this. She had been on one hell of a roller-coaster lately and her instincts hadn't stopped squirming with uneasiness. And for some reason, a small part of her believed Strucker. Or at least wanted to believe him.

"I need time to think about this," she said at last, her voice small and distant in the thin, feeble light of the streetlamp with the shadows all around her, creeping ever closer.

"Fair enough," Strucker said with a sharp nod. He still held the file out to her, unwavering, insistent. She edged forward and took it then retreated a safe distance away again.

"We'll look out for you, Romanoff," he said. "You have my word."

She knew that was supposed to reassure her, make her feel better, but she was too busy battling back the tide of confusion and frustration beating at the walls she had built around herself. The comfort of Strucker's promise fell limp at her feet and she wouldn't let it in, not yet. She didn't put much faith in promises of protection these days.

"I'll keep that in mind," she said as she disappeared into the night, the HYDRA file clutched to her chest, warm and filled with even more questions in search of answers.

[][][]

Natasha settled on a hotel room in the downtown district, paid for in cash, and nothing like the ritzy place she had stayed at before. The walls were paper thin, granting her access to her neighbors' arguments and television programs loud and clear, as if she sat in the same room with them. A single bulb swung from loose wires in the ceiling, the ceiling covered in a spider-web of cracked plaster and gray-brown stains from water and mold. The perfect place to vanish for a while.

Hours later, Natasha had the file spread out all around her on the bed, her laptop was propped up on one knee, and the sun was peeking in through the musty pea green curtains. It still felt foreign, this concept sitting in her brain that she kept poking at, turning it over, examining it from all sides. HYDRA, the organization she had believed for so long to be border-line evil, was the one to save her from getting killed, and by her own boss no less. HYDRA had been the one watching her back all this time, not the KGB.

Natasha pushed to her feet, running her hands through her hair and moved to stand at the window, watching the trickle of traffic on the street below become heavier as the day began to come to life.

She had given everything to the KGB, turned herself into a monster, a killing machine. She had lost her beloved Alexei to those people. She had lost her beloved Ivan to those people. And in return, they tried to kill her, all because she was good at her job, all because she did exactly what they had taught her to do.

All night long, Natasha fought against the rising tide of memories demanding her attention. People she had assassinated, people she tried not to think about, filing their faces away under, "part of the job." How many of those people were innocent, like Alexei? How many of those were people were simply in the way? Wrong place, wrong time? How many of those people could still be alive if she had stopped to think for one minute rather than blindly following orders?

Natasha ran her fingers over the HYDRA logo on the file's cover. She could never erase the ghosts in her mind, haunting her thoughts day and night. But maybe…maybe with HYDRA, she could begin to make things right again. She didn't exactly have anything to lose now anyway. Ivan was gone. Alexei was gone. Tarasova. Her job. Everything, it was all gone. She could go solo, but with the KGB on her tail, it would be a rough road that would more than likely be cut short. And if HYDRA would bury the bitter trail of memories she had left in her wake, she would gladly accept the offer.

A high-pitched ping drew her attention to the laptop on her bed. A blue notification bounced on her desktop. She perched on the edge of the bed and drew it closer. "BARTON AUDIO" flashed in bold white letters in the left hand corner of the screen.

Natasha laughed softly and shook her head. The bug she had placed in Barton's apartment, she completely forgot to listen to the recording for the past two days. It seemed like a lifetime ago now. She tapped on the notification and the soundboard came up, bright green lines rising and falling with Barton's voice.

As she listened, she started piecing the HYDRA file together again. The lull of Barton's voice was comforting, a small taste of what life had been like before everything fell apart and went to hell, a small taste of normal.

Normal. Had she ever known the meaning of that word? She'd been enrolled in a spy program by the time she was six years old. "Normal" was not a word she used to describe her life at any point in time.

Her fingers went still, the papers paused in mid-air, at the recording of Barton's voice.

_My gut says something is off about Romanoff._

Barton…was…he was…keeping tabs on her? For what? For whom?

Natasha let the papers slip through her fingers, scattered on the floor, as she tapped the volume up a few notches, devoting all of her attention to the tinny recording of Barton's voice.

_Look who's getting distracted from the mission now, huh?_

Natasha's heart hammered against her rib cage and furious heat flared up her neck, across her face. _Mission._ That was highly specialized talk. Barton had been trained by someone, trained to go after her.

_I'm well aware making friends is not my objective, Bobbi. I just…I have a gut feeling about Romanoff. I mean, she had someone take a shot at me. That's worth looking into in my opinion. I want to get her out of her territory for a while and see if it rattles her a bit._

Natasha slammed the laptop lid shut, her entire body trembling. She pulled her knees up to her chest, curled her fists into the comforter, taking deep breath after deep breath, but it wasn't helping. Nothing was helping. It had all been an act on his part. She knew something was off about him…but who did he work for? He hadn't tried to kill her, so it probably wasn't Tarasova. If he did, he would have taken Natasha out a long time ago.

The option of going solo was fading in the distance now, seemingly impossible to attain as it grew further and further out of her reach. The KGB had turned on her. Barton had turned on her. Strucker was a HYDRA member. How could she trust her judgement anymore when all these people had made it past her instincts and she hadn't noticed anything? Was she slipping? Had she been doing this too long? Or was it because of Alexei and Ivan? Because she couldn't pull herself back together again the way she needed to?

Natasha snatched up her phone from her backpack next to the bed and dialed Strucker's number.

"A pleasure to hear from you so soon, Romanoff," he said. "I was beginning to think you'd run off on me for good."

"I have conditions," she said.

"Name them," he replied without hesitation.

"Full access to your database. I don't want to run into any bullshit where I don't have clearance for something. You keep me in the loop. If you have information that I can use so somebody doesn't die, I want to hear it."

"Agreed."

"And full autonomy. If I don't want to do a mission for whatever reason, you find somebody else to do it."

"You drive a hard bargain, as always. But I'll agree to that as well. Anything else?"

"I can walk away any time I choose to."

"Of course. We have no desire to hold you against your will, Romanoff. I made you a promise to look out for you, not keep you hostage."

"Yeah, well, Tarasova made a similar promise so excuse me if I don't take you at your word."

"Understood. Is that all?"

Natasha glanced at the laptop screen again. It wasn't the sting of Tarasova's betrayal that pushed her to this. It wasn't finding out that she was Barton's mission, that he was an enemy after all. She'd been betrayed before, and though it stung, it wore off eventually. She had to do this. She had to because she screwed up, big time, and HYDRA was her lifeline, thin and fragile as it may be, of hope in this mess she had created. And maybe, just maybe, she could start to do something right for a change.

"Where do I sign up?" she asked.

She could almost hear the smile in Strucker's voice as he said, "Consider it done. Welcome to HYDRA, Romanoff."


	10. Blindsided

**A/N 9/5/15  
This chapter is dedicated to you, dear readers, for every time you've eagerly requested an update and devoured new chapters posted. Words can never express how much I'm continually in awe that even despite my slow update progress, your enthusiasm never fades. Thank you, thank you so, so much for believing in my story just as much, if not more, than I do. This is for you. **

**CLINT**

Romanoff was gone. She just…disappeared.

Of course Clint hadn't expected to see her at the theater again immediately after the shooting. Romanoff did have that breakdown in his bathtub after all. It took time to come back from that. Sure, she might have looked okay when she left his apartment but she was a master at sliding that invisible mask into place, not letting anyone in. He'd watched her do it a thousand times at the theater. She'd even done it to him once or twice, shutting him out. Just because she smiled and said, "I'm fine," didn't mean he believed it for a second.

The theater was utter chaos after the news of the shooting, but the show continued on. Word spread quickly that Mila was staying with family for a few days. No one seemed to have any knowledge of Romanoff's whereabouts. Something had to come up at some point though. She couldn't have simply vanished into thin air.

Clint was so focused on keeping an eye out for Romanoff that he almost didn't see Vladimir coming. Almost. There were always a few trouble makers at the circus, Clint never got along with everyone all the time. And he'd learned a long time ago to always keep those trouble makers within his line of sight. He could practically feel the heat from Vladimir's rage coming a mile away.

Clint was in the back of the theater putting the last touch ups on one of the sets when he heard Vladimir's heavy footsteps getting closer. His muscles tensed, tight as a bowstring, and when Vladimir's meaty hand came down in a vise grip on Clint's shoulder, he was ready for it. He spun and shoved Vladimir's hand away as he stepped to the side and backwards, getting a little distance, a little space to diffuse the situation. He put his hands up in a placating gesture.

"Hey bud," Clint said, "startled me there."

"What did I tell you, American?" Vladimir growled.

Clint screwed up one eye in concentration. The situation was not good, he knew that, and yet he couldn't resist the temptation of poking the hornet's nest anyway.

"That….you were hoping Santa would bring you a pony for Christmas," Clint said.

Vladimir's scowl deepened even further until Clint was certain his face was going to be stuck that way.

"I told you," Vladimir spat, "to stay away from the ballerinas, especially Miss Romanoff."

"Oh, that. I've been really good about that too and…"

Vladimir took a threatening step forward. Clint hustled backwards, skipping over a pile of scrap wood and paint cans. That at least put something between them.

"You lie," Vladimir said. "Miss Romanoff and Mila, they were both with you at the shooting. You almost got them killed."

"You have a point there," Clint admitted. He'd tried to not blame himself for what happened, but a small voice in the back of his mind still wouldn't shut up that part of it was his fault. He could chalk it up to the job, tell himself repeatedly that he had to get Romanoff out of her comfort zone somehow. She always had the upper hand at the theater. Clint had been getting dangerously close to a dead end with no leads to follow whatsoever so someone had to make a move and shake things up. But he wasn't supposed to almost get her killed. Or Mila. God, if Mila had been hurt…

But he didn't get to follow that thought through. Vladimir advanced, fist cocked and ready to swing. He stumbled, just a little, as he made it over the pile of wood and paint cans and that's exactly what Clint was hoping for. Taking advantage of the distraction, he caught Vladimir's blow with one hand while snapping his other fist up into Vladimir's ribs. Vladimir grunted yet it didn't slow him down. He barreled into Clint, fists pummeling into Clint's ribs, left, right, left.

Clint tucked his elbows in close to his sides to protect himself then dropped one shoulder and shoved as hard as he could, pushing Vladimir away. Before he could block it, Vladimir's fist connected with Clint's eye in retaliation, sending a shower of black spots dancing across his vision. Clint reeled backwards, fists up to shield his face, elbows still tight against his ribs. His brain was reeling but his instincts kicked in, always vaguely aware of how close Vladimir was, how his footsteps advanced a second time, eager to finish Clint off.

As Vladimir took another swing, Clint ducked to the side and brought his knee up into Vladimir's gut. Vladimir gasped and stumbled this time, swaying for a moment.

"_What_ is going on here?"

Clint spun around. An older woman marched forward, her heels sending sharp, staccato echoes like gunshots ripping through the stunned silence. Her white hair was pulled back tight from her face, making her bony features seem even more pronounced. Her entire body was all angles, her hands placed firmly on her hips in a scary, no-nonsense way. And holy hell was she on a mission. Clint had seen her around before, directing the dancers on stage. This must be Bolishinko.

"Just a misunderstanding," Clint said in the best Russian he could manage. "It's sorted out now."

She squinted at him in suspicion. "You're the American, aren't you? Your Russian is atrocious."

Clint stifled a sigh. No credit for giving it his best shot then. "I do have a name actually…"

"Don't be smart with me," she snapped. "Vladimir, straighten up. Tell me what's going on here."

Vladimir was still bent over his knees, gasping for air. Slowly, he raised himself to a standing position. His face was beet red and Clint forced himself to glance away to cover a small smile of triumph.

"I told the American to leave the dancers alone," Vladimir explained. "I warned him but he didn't listen."

Clint gritted his teeth. Nothing like setting him up to hang.

Bolishinko's steely gaze flicked back to Clint. "Is that true?"

"I…"

"Vladimir is your superior," she cut in, "and you went against his direct orders. Any orders that came from him were mine to begin with, which means that you have defied me. My dancers can't focus when they're distracted by stagehands eager for a bit of distractions themselves."

"It's not like that," Clint said. "I didn't…"

"Two weeks," she declared with a dismissive flick of her long, pale fingers. "Two weeks suspended pay, Mr. Jones. After that, I will decide whether or not we still require your help here. Vladimir, please see him to the door."

Vladimir was all too happy to comply and get rid of Clint. Once Bolishinko was out of earshot, Clint hissed, "Just had to go whining to Mommy, didn't you?"

"Shut up, American," Vladimir said with a smirk. "Or I'll see to it that Madame Bolishinko decides she won't need your help ever again. Might do that anyway."

Clint clamped his mouth shut and seethed as the door was shut and he was left alone on the sidewalk.

"Bobbi," he sighed.

"Here," she replied immediately. They'd settled into a comfortable routine now, hardly talking most of the time except for when it was of the utmost importance that they inform each other of what was going on.

"Pretty sure I just lost my job at the theater," he said. "Damn. Sorry, I should have…"

"No," Bobbi said. "There are no 'should have's' in this job, Barton. They're nothing but a black hole that will suck you in and you'll never get out. Focus on finding another angle or making it right. Just keep moving forward. Understood?"

"Yes ma'am."

[][][]

Clint had nothing to do but sit around his apartment and it was driving him crazy. He canvased the neighborhoods, searching for any news at all of Romanoff popping up, but nothing presented itself. As much as he tried to not allow himself near the slippery slope of "should have's", a few managed to sneak through his defenses and he kicked himself for getting into that fight with Vladimir. He knew better. He knew Vladimir was the kind of guy who wouldn't back down from a fight, not until he saw the other guy flat on his back or dead. Clint should have backed down, should have appealed to Vladimir's ego, should have let Vladimir win. Then he'd still have his job, he'd still be able to watch Mila dance, he'd still be able to have an in with Romanoff whenever she decided to show up again. It would make things ten times harder to keep an eye on her when he wasn't around her on a daily basis.

Almost a week after the fight, his phone blared to life in the middle of the night. He stuffed his head under his pillow and fumbled around for his phone on the nightstand until his fingers stumbled across it.

"What?" he grunted.

"Get up," Bobbi said. "Looks like everything just went to hell."

Clint sat bolt upright. "What does that mean?"

"The KGB is down and Vanko made contact."

He shook his head, struggling to keep up with the conversation.

"It's three in the morning, Bobbi," he said. "One thing at a time. Start at the beginning."

"The head of the KGB was murdered in her apartment less than an hour ago," Bobbi explained, a little slower this time. "It's possible there are other members being targeted as well. The whole organization is crumbling which means the ban against SHIELD agents has been dissolved. They have no power to keep us from entering Russia anymore."

"So I don't have to be out here alone?" he asked as he searched for a clean shirt in his closet.

"Exactly."

"And Vanko?"

"This whole thing has him spooked. His history with the KGB goes way back and he worked with them on several projects for years. But there's a rumor going around that the assassin was a HYDRA agent. It's just a rumor at this point, but if it's proven true, Vanko knows he can't stand against them on his own. They'll get to him eventually. SHIELD is his only option at this point, to protect himself as well as those blueprints."

"That's where we come in."

"We'll be escorting him out of the country by dawn."

Clint's head was spinning. Everything was happening so fast. His job was almost over then. He'd be free of Russia and onto someplace new, all before noon probably.

"You still with me, Barton?" Bobbi asked. "Awfully quiet over there."

"Yeah…it's a lot to take in."

"I'll admit it's all pretty sudden. Over half of SHIELD was betting on those blueprints going to the KGB. When Fury got the call, headquarters went crazy. It hasn't really quieted down since."

"Does this mean you're on your way here?" Clint asked, his words slightly muffled as he tugged his shirt over his head.

"You bet. Grab some coffee, Barton, because the next couple of hours are going to be one hell of a whirlwind. You'll need to be packed by the time I get there. Coulson wants you out of that apartment as soon as possible. He's concerned you might be compromised. I disagree, but he's not taking that chance."

"I'm ready to get out of here anyway," he said, only partly true. He would miss the winding streets of Russia, the marvel of nearly every building he came across. And Mila. Would she wonder why he disappeared? But he was eager to get back to more familiar and humble surroundings. Russia was too rich, too elaborate for his tastes. He missed American movies and American music and American food. He missed home.

By the time Bobbi arrived and pulled up at the curb outside of his apartment, Clint was packed and on his way out the door. As he slipped the straps of his backpack over his shoulders, movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Romanoff climbed through his window, smooth and lithe as a cat, as if she hadn't vanished for nearly two weeks, as if it was perfectly normal to be using the window to get into his apartment rather than the front door.

"Hey," he said. "What are you doing…?"

Without saying a word, Romanoff pulled a gun from the waistband of her jeans. No hint of hesitation, not a tremble, as she trained the muzzle on him, her aim deadly sure and unwavering.

"Uh…think I must have missed something here," Clint said.

"Who are you working for?" Romanoff said, softly, quietly, but with an underlying venomous threat that was undeniable.

Clint's pulse picked up speed, working double time. She knew. She wasn't bluffing and he couldn't put her off this time. She _knew._

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Clint replied, though it was feeble even to his own ears.

A flicker of disappointment mingled with a blaze of rage flashed in Romanoff's eyes before she quickly quelled it. Always calm and cool. Always in control. She reached into her jacket pocket and drew out a cell phone. Pressed a button.

Clint's voice played back to him, metallic and tinny. His own words betrayed him.

_"I just…I have a gut feeling about Romanoff. I mean, she had someone take a shot at me. That's worth looking into in my opinion. I want to get her out of her territory for a while and see if it rattles her a bit."_

How had she made that recording? Had she been listening to him the entire time he was here? Frantically, Clint raced through the past few months, struggling to mentally catalogue every phrase he'd ever spoken in the apartment that might damn him further. A thousand scenarios sprang to mind and he stifled a groan.

Romanoff tucked the cell phone back into her pocket, her gaze never leaving his face.

"Well?" she said. "Did I rattle as you had hoped?"

Bobbi honked in the distance. Clint held no illusions that he would be able to drag this out until Bobbi grew impatient enough to come get him. He may have never witnessed Romanoff kill anyone personally, but he didn't feel it would be the wisest choice to try his luck and bank on the fact that she wouldn't pull the trigger. His gut instinct was already screaming that he'd be dead before Bobbi got in the building let alone up four flights of stairs to his apartment. And his own gun was stowed away in his backpack, so that option was out.

"No," Clint whispered. "You didn't rattle. Not even a little."

"Then you know I'm serious," Romanoff said. "And I want a serious answer."

Clint said nothing. It was pointless to try and defend himself. His cover was blown, ruined, no going back, no fixing it. And Romanoff knew she had him pinned with no hope of escape.

"Silence won't help you, Barton," she said. "Tell me who you work for."

"I can't. You know that."

"I will have the answer out of you, one way or the other."

The whole situation was spiraling out of control and Clint had no idea how to stop it. He could try and make a run for it. The door was within reach. Once he was in the stairwell, he had a better chance of dodging any shots Romanoff fired off. But it was that three foot stretch to the doorway, seemingly so short and miniscule, and yet cavernous to cross in his current predicament that made him hesitate. Romanoff might miss him if he made it to the stairwell…but she wouldn't miss now, not this close, not this direct.

"Are you the HYDRA agent that put Russia on its ear?" Clint asked.

Romanoff made no reply but the gun remained steady as ever. Could he take that as an answer? Or was she simply refusing to respond out of spite? To maintain control and put him on the defensive?

"You do realize that whole organization is made up of nothing but murderers, right?" he continued. "I mean, you're the one with connections. You've got to be aware of how bad HYDRA is and…"

"Stop. Talking." Romanoff bit out.

Clint pushed on. "If they're forcing you…"

"They're not forcing me to do anything I don't want to do. They're not the ones trying to _rattle_ me."

Clint snapped his mouth shut. Yeah, he'd royally screwed himself on this one. Any headway he'd made with Romanoff before, all of that ground was lost now. He had crossed her, betrayed her even, and it had obviously left a lasting impression that wasn't good. To his surprise, it was leaving a sour taste in his own mouth, too.

"Tell me," Romanoff said, every word slow, measured, and filled with acid as it left her mouth, "who you work for or we'll do things the hard way. I'll start with blowing out your kneecap. Your friend downstairs won't hear a thing."

The threat of physical violence was nothing new to Clint, especially not from Romanoff. But it felt different this time. She wasn't simply trying to scare him off or establish a hierarchy like she had on previous occasions. This time she was going to make him bleed for how he had turned against her, how he had lied.

"I can get you a fresh start," Clint said, pulling out every last possible trick he had up his sleeve to stall for time, to get her to put that gun down for just a split second. "You don't have to be with HYDRA. There are other choices, Natasha."

Romanoff took a step forward and the gun's muzzle shifted from his kneecap to the middle of his forehead. "Don't call me that," she hissed. "You have no right to act as if you know me, not after what you've done."

"After what I've done?" Clint asked. "Or what you've done?"

The words hung there, suspended, frozen in the icy silence.

Then Romanoff pulled the trigger.

The bullet went wide, shattered the wall a bare inch from Clint's head. He flinched, his shoulders hitched up around his ears as bits of plaster rained to the floor. But that was the distraction he'd been waiting for all this time. His fingers curled up, brushed against the bottom of his backpack, searching as subtly as possible without giving himself away.

"Don't think I missed by accident," Romanoff said.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Clint replied.

"Next bullet goes to the kneecap as promised."

"I believe you. But I still can't tell you what you want to know."

There. Clint's fingers skimmed across a small zipper, tucked into the side of his backpack. Carefully, slowly, he inched it open.

"Maybe I'm taking the wrong tactic here," Romanoff mused. "I've seen the way you're so attached to Mila. And with your past in the circus…" she shrugged. "The threat of pain no doubt holds little sway over you."

Clint struggled to maintain a neutral expression despite the dread churning in his stomach.

"Your friend downstairs would be much more forthcoming with information, I believe," she said.

Cold metal fell into Clint's hand at last. He pressed the small button at the edge of the switchblade, heard the soft snick of steel as the blade flicked out. Judging by the flash of recognition in Romanoff's eyes, she'd heard it too.

Clint threw the knife a fraction of a second before Romanoff fired again. The knife found its target, grazing Romanoff's hand just enough to send the bullet off course, embedded in the doorframe. Clint darted out the door and down the stairs.

More bullets lodged in the wall or bit into the wooden railing as he moved, one after the other after the other. Romanoff wasn't even taking her time anymore. Desperation and anger had taken over, fueling her, with nothing in mind but to hurt him, to make him pay for lying to her.

Clint burst out of the door and into the street. Bobbi's black sedan waited for him. He barreled in and slid down in the front seat.

"Go, now, right now," he said.

Bobbi stepped on the gas, tires screeching. "Good to see you too, Barton," she said.

The door to Clint's apartment building opened just as Bobbi pulled away. The dull thud of bullets rammed into the rear of the car before Bobbi turned a corner and out of sight.

"Making friends I see," Bobbi chirped.

[][][][]

Clint told Bobbi the whole story. Every detail, no matter how bad it made him look, no matter how it made him cringe. He told her everything. Bobbi listened, keeping her gaze on the road, occasionally checking in her rearview mirror if anyone was following her. When Clint was done, Bobbi pulled over and got out of the car without a word.

Clint waited, wondering if he'd made a huge, unforgivable mistake somewhere along the way. He knew he'd messed up a couple times on this mission, but Bobbi never got mad at him for it.

Well, not _really_ mad. She did get pissed occasionally but he deserved it, considering some of the stupid moves he'd pulled.

After several moments passed, Bobbi got back in the car and plopped a small mess of tangled wires and bits and pieces of broken plastic into his hand.

"Tracking device," she said. "Courtesy of HYDRA Agent Romanoff."

"Shit," Clint muttered. He should have seen that coming. "When she was shooting at us earlier?"

Bobbi nodded. "Remember those little bursts of static you got on random occasions in your com?"

"Yeah?"

"Interference from a planted bug."

"And that's where the recording came from," Clint groaned, the pieces locking into place at last.

"I totally missed it, Barton, and that's on me, not you."

"Sounds like you're creeping awfully close into 'should have' territory."

A small smile teased at Bobbi's lips and she cast a quick sideways glance at him. "Point taken. Moving forward?"

"Moving forward," Clint agreed. "Do you think it's safe if we keep going as planned? Evacuating Vanko and everything?"

"You've already done most of the heavy lifting getting us to this point," Bobbi explained. "I'll run it past Coulson first, get him up to speed on the latest development, and he'll decide whether you're out or not."

Clint was silent, fighting back the rising ache of disappointment. Bobbi had given him credit, sure, but to think that he wouldn't see it through, that he wouldn't get to escort Vanko out of the country all because of Romanoff…it stung a little more than he cared to admit.

To be on the safe side, Bobbi switched out their cars, swapping the sedan for a smaller economy car. When they finally pulled up outside of an abandoned warehouse, Bobbi shut off the car and nudging Clint's shoulder with her fist.

"You did a good job through all this, Clint," she said. "I mean that. Not many rookies would have been able to pull off what you did. So even if your mission ends here, just know that you did a good job."

"Thanks, Bobbi," Clint replied with a nod. That eased the sting a little, he thought. He might have messed up here and there along the way but at least he didn't screw everything up beyond repair.

The warehouse was empty, save for Coulson standing dead center in the room, hands clasped in front of him. He tipped his head forward in greeting when Bobbi and Clint walked up.

"Agent Barton," he said. "Nice to see you in one piece. From what Agent Morse has told me, it's been an exciting adventure for your first time out of the gate."

"Are all the jobs like this?" Clint asked.

"Some of them are much more…exotic," Coulson said with a smile.

Clint had no idea what to make of that comment, but judging by the wicked gleam in Coulson's eye, he decided he didn't want to ask.

"Coulson," Bobbi broke in. "Could I have a word in private?"

Clint willed himself to stay calm as he watched Coulson and Bobbi talking a few feet away. It might not be his fault that Romanoff found him out and potentially endangered their entire mission, but he really wanted to finish this job, to prove to himself that his second chance would work out after all.

Finally, Coulson and Bobbi rejoined him and despite how Clint struggled to remain neutral, his stomach was still flip-flopping like crazy.

"Bobbi has informed me there's been a slight hitch in our plans," Coulson said.

"Yeah…" Clint hedged.

"It won't be a problem, Agent Barton."

"…it's not?"

Coulson shook his head. "Not at all. There are plenty of hiccups in this job, regardless of how many years of experience you have under your belt. We all make mistakes. Now, having said that, there are some changes to the original plan. You will be put on sniper duty rather than getting in touch with Vanko. You'll be far enough away that if someone followed you or they're tracking you and we're not aware of it, there shouldn't be any issues. Do you feel you're still capable of getting in and out undetected?"

Clint nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Then we'd better get moving. We'll be meeting Vanko by the river within the hour."

[][][]

Clint was perched high on a building four blocks away from the rendezvous point, flat on his stomach, his sniper rifle tucked neatly against his shoulder. Through his scope, he spotted Coulson wandering the abandoned parking lot, arms crossed over his chest. Clint adjusted his viewpoint and found Bobbi in the unmarked van, fingers drumming a restless beat against the steering wheel.

Now this was what Clint could do, without a shadow of a doubt. He had the entire set up laid out before him and he could spot anyone coming well in advance. For the first time, Clint felt as if he finally, _finally,_ was on familiar ground. If nobody showed, all he would have to do was scout out the territory. And if somebody did happen to crash the party, he could take his time, line up the shot…a whole different ball game from what he'd been going through for the past few months.

The appointed hour came and went with no signs of Vanko whatsoever. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, sending threads of golden light to shimmering across the river's surface when a small dark blue truck rolled up alongside Coulson. An older man stepped out with a graying moustache, holding a cylindrical metal tube to his chest.

The blueprints. At last. The damn blueprints everyone was fighting over. Clint watched as Vanko shook hands with Coulson, talked for about a minute then Coulson opened the van door and Vanko slipped inside. And now SHIELD had those precious, coveted blueprints.

"Ready to head out, Barton," Bobbi said. Her voice was no longer an intrusion in his head. Clint had grown used to her popping in every once in a while.

"Coast is clear," Clint replied.

The van started rolling out of the parking lot and Clint watched until it turned the corner. He waited, and waited. No one followed. He held off a little while longer then slung his rifle over his shoulder and scrambled down the ladder. Bobbi was parked two blocks over, the engine idling with a soft rumble.

Clint jumped in the front seat. "You're good to go," he said.

As Bobbi put the car into gear again, Clint couldn't help stealing a glance over his shoulder at Vanko. He was a small man, shoulders hunched, arms hugging that cylinder like his life depended on it…which was probably true in a way. So this was the man everyone was after.

"Barton," Bobbi said.

Clint turned and recognized the concern on Bobbi's face. Only then did he realize the van had slowed down slightly. Bobbi pointed and Clint followed her direction.

"We've got company," Bobbi said.

One lone headlight bounced towards them, too low to be a car. Had to be a motorcycle. And it was heading straight for them. There was nowhere for Bobbi to go. The road was flanked by warehouses on either side. But the motorcycle barreled closer and closer.

And Clint knew.

"Back up," he said. "Back up, Bobbi, get us out of here. Now."

Bobbi stepped on the gas and twisted around, but Clint hadn't reacted fast enough. He could just make out a figure on the bike, crouched low, and a glimpse of red hair peeked out from under the gleaming black helmet…

"Shit," Clint muttered.

At the exact moment Clint realized what was going on, Romanoff raised her arm and the glint of light on metal flashed through the air. Clint grabbed the steering wheel and gave it a hard yank to the right. The van collided with the side of a warehouse, metal screeching and screaming against metal, until it skidded to a stop. Bobbi struggled to reorient herself in her surroundings after the van spun out. Clint whipped around, searching for any signs of Romanoff but he saw nothing.

"Barton, what's going on?" Coulson demanded.

"It's Romanoff," he said. "I'm sure of it. She must have followed us somehow."

Coulson swore under his breath. The lone headlight popped back into view again but Bobbi was already careening down the road. A soft ping rattled the tense silence and a second later, a deafening, thunderous roar sent the van airborne. Clint caught a glimpse of the pavement as the van tipped nose down and flipped midair, landing flat on its roof. Shards of glass burst around him, falling in his hair, in his close, scratching his face. His ears were ringing, a pounding headache throbbed at the back of his skull, and each breath sent a flare of heat blazing through his rib cage. He braced himself against the ceiling of the van and blinked, fighting to reorient himself to his surroundings again as fast as possible. Bobbi slouched in the seat next to him, blood covering half of her face. Coulson…he couldn't see Coulson, seated directly behind him.

The van door scraped open. Clint managed to turn enough to see a gloved hand reach in and latch onto Vanko's shoulder.

"No," Clint wheezed. "No…"

He watched, horrified, as Vanko's unconscious body was dragged out. A spark of rage ignited in Clint's chest at the sight. After all this, he was not going to lose Vanko when he was so close to doing something right for once.

Every movement was searing agony as Clint fought to get out of the van. He worked his seatbelt free and collapsed against the van's ceiling, landing hard on his shoulder and sending a fresh wave of pain shuddering through his body. He crawled out of the window, leaving a trail of bloody handprints in the shards of glass littering the ground. Slowly, achingly, he managed to stand on his feet and took a step forward, propping himself up against the side of the van as he went.

While he was struggling to free himself, a black Hummer had pulled up a few feet away and Romanoff was dragging Vanko's limp body right to it.

"You're not taking him," Clint called, as loud as he could against the pounding in his head.

Romanoff froze and let Vanko's body slump to the ground, merciless and cold, before she turned around.

"He's all yours," she said. "Come and get him."

Clint squared his shoulders and left the support of the van. Every step wobbled and his legs trembled from the effort. Every breath felt as if his lungs were on fire. But Clint pressed onward. He was going to finish this damn job even if it killed him. He was going to earn his second chance.

Romanoff gave a slight flick of her wrist. Clint barely had time to shield his face before a small round disk landed at his feet, no bigger than a bottle cap.

And exploded.


	11. Seeing Red

**A/N: In an effort to update more often, I'm cutting my chapters in half rather than writing these mega-monster long chapters that take forever to write and forever to edit. So here goes! Hope you enjoy! If you're still reading after all this time...have some super duper chocolate brownies :)**

**NATASHA**

Natasha watched as Barton was knocked clear off his feet by the blast, landed flat on his back, and didn't move.

"Now we're even," she muttered. She hoisted Vanko's limp body into the back of the Hummer and climbed into the passenger's seat.

Nemirovsky raised her eyebrows. "Friend of yours?" she asked.

"Not anymore," Natasha replied. "And it's none of your damn business anyway. Drive."

The ride to the HYDRA bunker was silent. Nemirovsky showed no interest in attempting conversation and Natasha didn't try anything either. Now that the KGB had fallen and HYDRA was on the rise, Strucker made himself far too busy for Natasha and it irritated the hell out of her. He finally got that positon of power he'd been craving ever since she'd known him. And now, he insisted on exercising his power by pairing Natasha off with Nemirovsky for field work, despite Natasha's protests that she'd rather work alone.

She knew exactly why he wouldn't listen to her. Part of it could be attributed to being head of HYDRA, yes. He didn't have to take orders from anyone anymore. But it was more than that. He didn't trust her. And Natasha didn't trust him, that much was obvious, it always had been. After Strucker had revealed his status as double agent for god only knew how many years, he sure as hell was never going to earn an ounce of her trust ever again.

No, the balance was perfect now. Under normal circumstances, she had to work with a certain level of trust between other agents, but that wasn't going to get in her way anymore. Just the job. And that's exactly how she liked it.

Moscow had long since fallen behind them and the road stretched out in a long, black ribbon cutting through the golden stubble of barren fields. At exactly thirty miles outside of the city, when the neon green lights on the dashboard clock read 9:00am, Nemirovsky pulled off the road and into the field before she came to a stop. She pressed a small blue button on the dashboard and the earth shifted in front of them. A large black panel slid away revealing a gaping tunnel lined with steel burrowing deep into the earth.

Nemirovsky turned to face Natasha. "Run along now. I can take it from here."

Natasha gritted her teeth. "Strucker's orders were to bring Vanko."

"And you have," she said in a deceptively calm, sweet voice that only aggravated Natasha even further.

"I'd rather see him delivered for myself, thanks," Natasha replied.

A faint smirk curled Nemirovsky's deep red lips. "It must irritate you so much, not being number one agent anymore."

Natasha looked away, staring straight ahead. "We're wasting time."

"You're back to being a rookie," Nemirovsky plowed on, relentless. "Starting at the bottom rung all over again. Given no more information than a need to know basis."

Natasha clenched her jaw, forcing herself to swallow the burning words that singed her tongue, aching to be free. She refused to react to Nemirovsky's childish taunts, refused to give her the satisfaction she so openly hungered for. But Nemirovsky was eating it up, knowing full well Natasha couldn't defend herself.

Nemirovsky continued, dragging each word out. "And. It's. Killing. You."

Before Natasha could respond, Strucker and half a dozen armed guards exited the tunnel and came towards them.

"Ladies," he said. "I trust our guest arrived safely and in good health."

Nemirovsky shot a triumphant look at Natasha before she climbed out of the car. Two guards in black hauled Vanko none-too-gently from the car and into the bunker. Natasha made to follow but Strucker put a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged him off.

"I want you to handle Vanko's interrogation," he said. "You've always been an efficient agent, knowing exactly what buttons to push at exactly the right time. I trust you'll get the location of the twins for me as fast as possible."

She frowned. "Why the rush?"

He spread his hands. "The twins are still not in my possession. And there are others who won't stop looking for Vanko. We're ahead in this race for the moment. I want to keep that lead and drive it home. Find me those twins, Natasha."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "It's Agent Romanoff to you. And I can only carry out the interrogation properly if I'm granted the freedom to do whatever it takes. I don't want anyone holding me back."

Strucker nodded. "That's exactly what I was hoping for. Have at him, Agent Romanoff."

Vanko was strapped into a steel chair in the middle of a small steel cell with one bare, lonely bulb hanging from the ceiling. Natasha studied him, silent, arms crossed, for an hour. Unlike others she had interrogated, Vanko never pleaded, begged, or bargained. He knew what was coming. And he didn't say a word. He'd be tough to crack. Tough, but not impossible. Everyone had their breaking point.

Natasha ambled towards him and stopped a foot away. "The twins you've been experimenting on. Where are they?"

Vanko's gaze remained resolutely straightforward. Solid, unwavering, and much too strong for her liking. Oh, this would be _fun_.

Natasha leaned down and placed her hands on either side of the chair, bending close enough that her lips brushed against his ear.

"Tell me now," she whispered, "and there won't be quite as much pain. You have my word."

Vanko pulled away just enough for his gaze to meet hers. "You don't have to do this. I can see you're not as cold as them…"

Natasha's fist cracked across his face, sending his words scattering across the cell accompanied by a spray of blood. And it felt good. It felt so. Damn. _Good_.

She hadn't been this physically forceful in an interrogation since…

Never.

Her training relied on mind games, on the suggestion of pain at the right pressure point to make it explode and feel a thousand times worse. She played off the individual fears and neuroses of each subject, making the entire experience as horrifying as possible. Violence was hardly necessary when her victims were a sobbing, trembling mess.

But this go around, she couldn't afford to take her time. There were others after Vanko, hunting him down, eager to get to those twins. And part of her didn't want to take the slow route. She was enjoying this too much.

Vanko turned his head away and spat a glob of blood onto the floor with a wet smack. Natasha paced in front of him and still he refused to follow her, to track her movements in fear like all her other subjects did. Why wasn't he afraid of her? Everyone was afraid of her. He should be _terrified_, especially after the hell Natasha had gone through to find him in the first place.

"Tell me," she sighed, "where the twins are. Don't make this any harder, or more painful, than it has to be."

Vanko's jaw clenched tight. And a surge of icy fury rose up in Natasha's chest. How dare he hold back? It had taken months of her life, and the cost of Ivan's life, to track this bastard down, and after all that…he still refused to talk.

Another sickening crack of her fist connected with that stubborn set of his jaw. Power coursed through her at the feeling of revenge wrapped around her knuckles, leaving bloodied trails and massive bruises blossoming across Vanko's face.

And she saw red.

Another blow.

Another.

Another.

Natasha caught Vanko's hair and yanked his head back. His eyes were swollen shut and blood dribbled from his mouth, staining his teeth, pouring down the front of his button-up shirt. Still, he made no sound. He had an impressive iron will. And she would relish every moment of breaking him.

"Tell me where the twins are," she said in a low warning tone. "And I'll stop."

Vanko coughed and managed to ease one eye partly open. "You can get away from them, it's not too late, if you just…"

This time, Natasha didn't aim for his battered face. Instead, she sent her fist straight into his solar plexus like a hammer. He choked and gurgled as he struggled to pull in another breath. She caught his chin and jerked his head up, forcing him to look her in the eye.

"I like it here," she hissed. "Trust me, I've got nothing to lose thanks to you. This is what you get for trying to keep your precious experiments hidden instead of giving them up like you should have right from the start. Now tell me where the goddamn twins are, or you will die, gasping in a pool of your own blood, in this cell, alone."

Vanko raised his gaze to her face and for a split second, a jolt of horror writhed in Natasha's stomach. In that moment, she saw a tired old man, trapped by his own creation, by his own genius, hunted down for years, with no peace of mind to help him sleep at night. And here she was beating him half to death with her bare fists.

No, Natasha thought, gritting her teeth. This was entirely his doing. He chose to hide. He chose to run for years. He chose this. If he'd worked with the KGB in the first place, none of this would have happened, Ivan would still be alive…

A fresh flare of anger burned through Natasha and she finally saw it. Fear sparked in Vanko's eyes. About damn time.

"I have a lab," he croaked. "In the mountains. I keep the twins there. No one knows where it is but me."

Natasha waited while Vanko explained exactly where his hidden lab was, waited for him to write it down in his painstakingly slow scrawl. His hands shook and flecks of blood dripped from his face, landing on the page in small splashes, lacing his words with grim red punctuation.

When he was done, she slid the pad of paper closer to her with one finger and picked it up, studying it.

"A wise choice," she said.

Vanko leaned back in his chair in silence, his shoulders sagged with defeat. Natasha tapped her fingers against the pad of paper.

"If only you had made this decision earlier."

Then she cocked her fist and whipped out a right hook with all her strength. Vanko went limp, slumped to the side of his chair. Blood, drip, drip, dripped onto the cement floor.

As she stalked from the cell, Vanko's confession tucked under one arm, her knuckles caked with the old man's blood, she realized he was right. She wasn't as cold as Strucker, or Nemirovsky, or any other HYDRA agent.

She was much, much colder.


	12. Unfinished Business

**CLINT**

Pain. Throbbing, pulsing, blazing, in his head, wrapped around his ribs, surging through his lungs with every breath. Slowly, Clint opened his eyes. Stars winked above him in the inky dark sky as a high-pitched ringing screamed in his ears relentlessly. He rolled over, carefully propping himself on his elbows and gritting his teeth against the fresh burn that swept through his entire body.

How long had he been out? He twisted around as best he could to find the van. God, it seemed so far away. But he had to check on Bobbi and Coulson, make sure they were okay, make sure…make sure Romanoff didn't….finish them off.

He started crawling towards the van, his legs too shaky to support his weight, his head pounding too hard to risk standing up. Shards of glass and bits of gravel bit into his palms and left a trail of bloody handprints behind him on the pavement.

By the time he reached the van, his arms were trembling from the exertion. The side door was open, granting immediate access to Coulson first. Clint let out a breath of relief when he found a slow but steady pulse fluttering beneath his fingers against Coulson's neck.

Darkness began to creep in at the edges of Clint's vision and his breathing was growing ragged and shallow but he fought his way to Bobbi's side, pulling himself along the ground using his forearms. He reached into the window and took her hand, his thumb pressed against the inside of her wrist, his lips silently muttering, please, please, please, over and over.

There. Faint, but there. A heartbeat.

"Oh god, thank you," he said, letting his breath out on a small sob. He tightened his hold on Bobbi's hand as he tilted his head back against the ground and felt himself falling into unconsciousness. "It's okay, Bobbi. You're going to be okay. Just hang in there…a little…while longer…"

[][][]

When Clint opened his eyes again, blinding white light greeted him. He winced and squeezed his eyes shut again. That damn ringing in his ears was still going on and it was driving him crazy. He groaned and pressed his hands over his ears…

The previous events began to come together in his mind again, piece by fuzzy piece. His eyes flew open and he struggled to sit up.

"Bobbi," he wheezed.

A fresh blaze of pain, sharper this time, seared through his ribcage. He gasped and eased himself back against the bed again, fighting to take a breath through his clenched teeth.

"Easy, tiger."

The words were muffled, as if they filtered to Clint through a cloud of thick cotton. Carefully, Clint turned his head to find Nick Fury standing at the window, his back facing the room.

"Where am I?" Clint rasped.

"A hospital in Sweden."

Clint grimaced and rubbed at his aching head. "But…Russia…"

"You got your ass kicked back there," Fury said as he turned around and pulled up a chair next to Clint's bed. "Cracked and broken ribs. A concussion that's had you out cold for the past forty-eight hours. Some internal bleeding too. But thanks to your quick thinking, I've still got all my agents."

"Where's Bobbi?" Clint asked. "Is she okay? I want to see her."

"She's fine."

But Clint was already stripping away the IV lines, heedless of the pinch of the needles in his skin. He pushed himself up off the bed to stand and stumbled as sheets tangled around his ankles. He yanked free and propelled himself into the hallway through sheer momentum and willpower. Fury sighed and followed after him.

"Where is she?" Clint demanded as he staggered down the hallway, one arm braced against his protesting ribs.

"Two rooms down," Fury replied calmly. "She's sleeping like a baby though, won't get much out of her."

"I just need to see that she's all right…"

The next thing Clint knew, Fury had a gentle yet firm hand on his shoulder, guiding Clint into a wheelchair.

"Damn stubborn kids," Fury muttered. "Bobbi was just as insistent when we brought you in."

He pushed Clint along the hallway until they reached Bobbi's room. Clint sat up as straight as he could to peer into the window. Bobbi lay in the hospital bed, her head wrapped tight with gauze, one arm cradled in a sling. Clint pressed a hand to the window and drew in a shaky breath.

"She's okay," he whispered.

Fury muttered something Clint didn't quite catch. Clint tugged at his ears in annoyance and twisted around to look up at Fury.

"What did you say?" Clint asked.

"I said she'll be back to raising hell in no time."

Clint shook his head and rubbed his ears harder. It still sounded as if he was underwater and everything was muted and distant.

"Sorry, my hearing is still pretty whacked out from the explosion," he said.

Fury pressed his lips together in a tight line and glanced away, silent. Clint did a double-take and his hands fell to his lap.

"What?" Clint asked in a low voice, his tone heavy with dread. "That's a bad news look. What is it you're not telling me?"

Fury clenched his jaw and made no reply for several agonizing seconds before he finally returned his gaze to Clint. He reached into his pocket and held up a small, round black disk. Romanoff's grenade. Clint flinched when he saw it and shied away.

"What the hell are you doing with that thing?" he demanded.

"It's a replica," Fury said, rolling it around in his fingers. "A few of my agents pieced it together from the wreckage. It wasn't meant to cause much damage. But you were a little closer than you should have been and the way your body must have been turned…"

"Just tell me," Clint said. "Please."

Fury sighed and tucked the grenade back into his pocket. "The blast took out all hearing in your left ear."

Clint shivered as a chill rippled over his skin. "Wh...what?"

A brief flash of sympathy softened Fury's usual stoicism, making Clint feel sick to his stomach. It was true. He didn't want it to be true, but that look on Fury's face…

"No," Clint said, his grip tightening on the arms of the wheelchair. "No, I swear, I can still hear things. Damn it, that can't be possible."

He covered his left ear, leaving his right ear exposed, listening to the muffled movement of the surrounding hospital, passing staff, beeping machines. Then he switched, covering his right ear and leaving his left ear exposed…

Silence.

Clint went through the motions a second time. This couldn't be happening.

Then he did it a third time.

Finally, Clint glanced up at Fury.

"I guess this means my career as an agent is over before it really got started," he said.

"I wouldn't let a perfectly good agent go to waste just because of a little hiccup like this," Fury said.

"But…I can't...I'm…" Clint broke off, unable to push out the last final words to finish the sentence. He couldn't say it, couldn't make it true by declaring it out loud.

"You've still got hearing in your other ear," Fury pointed out. "And I've got my best technicians working on an ear piece for you."

"A hearing aid you mean."

"That's one name for it."

Clint turned back to Bobbi's window, considering for a moment.

"Then I want to go after Romanoff," he said.

Fury raised his eyebrows. "Now that's going to be a bit trickier to pull off."

"Why? She's still out there, isn't she? Along with Vanko? We have to get her somehow."

Fury held up his hands to slow Clint's tidal wave of questions. "Hold up, Sparky. First of all, you're in no condition to go anywhere. You can't even walk ten feet without turning blue in the face. Second," he paused and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Romanoff's in the wind. Vanished. SHIELD's primary concern right now is HYDRA's infiltration of Russia. Romanoff will have to wait."

"But I can find her," Clint insisted. "I know I can. I spent months around her, studying her habits, who she talked to, who her contacts were."

Fury nodded. "That may be. But HYDRA is putting more lives at stake than Romanoff is. She's gone. We have nothing to go on and nowhere to look. I can't take man power away from fighting HYDRA to hunt down one woman."

"So that's just it?" Clint asked. "She's gone and we're not going after her? She could be a back door into HYDRA for all we know."

Fury crossed his arms, every angle in his body screaming annoyance. "I'm going to assume your crankiness is because the pain killers are wearing off."

Clint slouched in his chair and stifled a growl.

"I can't assign you to look for Romanoff, Agent Barton," Fury said. "No matter how useful you think it might be."

Clint gritted his teeth and glared at the floor, his mind whirling through a thousand possibilities. He didn't need permission. He never needed permission in his life to do anything and he certainly didn't need it now. But a small voice in the back of his mind whispered to calm down, to behave himself, to obey orders because this was a second chance he was not going to screw up…

"However," Fury said, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking onto his heels. "If it so happened that one of my agents disappeared to God only knows where, well, I couldn't stop him."

Clint glanced up. Fury cast a sly sideways look at him.

"You didn't hear that from me," Fury said.

Clint swallowed a smile. "Yes, sir."

[][][]

Clint waited in Bobbi's room until she woke up. He knew she was okay, that she'd be up and moving in no time, but he wanted to hear her voice, to see a hint of her sharpness returned to her again. He couldn't stop replaying that image of her suspended upside down in the van, with blood and glass everywhere and he needed to get it out of his head.

"Hey," Bobbi whispered, pulling Clint out of his thoughts. He sat up and inched his chair forward.

"Hi," he said.

"You're looking a lot better than the last time I saw you."

"I could say the same for you. How are you feeling?"

She grimaced and shifted against the pillows. "Like I've been hit by a truck. But I wasn't the one to take a grenade to the face. How are you holding up?"

Clint gave a small shrug. "It was a flash grenade or something, not enough to cause any real damage."

Bobbi squinted at him with suspicion. Clint squirmed.

"What?" he asked.

"I spent months listening to just your voice, Clint," she said. "I can tell when you're holding something back."

Clint sighed and rested his forearms on the edge of the bed. Bobbi placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently.

"I lost hearing in my left ear," he said. He hadn't wanted to say it, to admit it, but there was no point in avoiding it. He'd been testing his hearing all day while he waited for Bobbi to wake up and the results had always been the same. Dead silence.

Bobbi's hand slid from his shoulder to his hand and she gripped his fingers.

"I'm sorry," she said.

Clint shook his head. "It's not your fault. You have nothing to be sorry for."

A pause stretched between them where nothing was said. They simply sat there, bruised, broken, and trying to pull themselves back together again.

"I'm going after Romanoff," Clint said, his voice pitched low even though no one else was around.

Bobbi nodded. "Figured you would. Does Fury know?"

"He's looking the other way for the time being."

"Do you have any idea where she went?"

Clint shook his head again, staring at Bobbi's hand. He ran his thumb over the angry red grazes across her knuckles where the skin had been scraped clean off.

"No," he said. "But I'll find her."

"Clint," Bobbi said, just the slightest hint of that commanding senior agent slipping into her tone again. "Don't do anything stupid, okay? Romanoff is a world class assassin. You've barely had enough training to cover a year."

"She nearly killed you. And Coulson. And me."

"Which is why I'm asking you to rethink this."

He raised his gaze to meet hers. "Please don't ask me that, Bobbi. I have to do this. I let her slip by me. All the signs were there. If I'd been paying attention…"

"No," Bobbi cut in, pushing herself up on the bed to stare him right in the eye. "Do you have any idea how hard this job is? It doesn't get any easier. You can have all the training exercises and every handbook memorized and you'll still screw up at some point."

Clint started to protest that this really wasn't making him feel any better, but Bobbi plowed on.

"You'll get hit with a thousand split second decisions all at once and it's not possible to get them all right. Everyone messes up, Clint, everyone, no matter how much experience you've got under your belt. Romanoff is crazy good, she's been on our radar for a long time. Of course she slipped past you. She's slipped past us all at one point or another. Don't let your judgment get all fogged up just because I got a few bruises."

Clint sat there, stunned, for a moment. Finally, he said, "She let me live."

Bobbi frowned. "What?"

"Romanoff let me live. I don't know why but she did."

Bobbi let her head drop back against the pillows. "Right. She_ let_ you go. That's why you're deaf in one ear."

As soon as she said it, her head snapped up again. A flicker of regret flashed in her eyes and she went silent.

Deaf. That was the first time anyone had said the word to Clint's face. They'd always danced around it. Until now. It had such a hollow, empty echo to it that made his stomach twist into a sickening, terrifying knot. He was deaf. Simple as that.

"Sorry," Bobbi whispered. "I didn't…"

"I'm deaf," Clint said, his voice hitching on the last word. "It's a fact. Let's keep moving forward."

Bobbi studied him for a second, seeming to decide whether she should continue or not. Clint couldn't stand the way she was looking at him, or the way that damn word – deaf – kept hovering over his head. So he spoke first.

"Romanoff could have killed me," he said. "She should have. A bullet to the head would have been a much more effective way of getting rid of me. Instead, she threw a grenade at me. A small one too. Fury said it was made to disorient, not harm. She sure as hell didn't miss, so yeah, Romanoff let me get away."

Bobbi shot him a worried look. "But…that doesn't make any sense."

"I know it doesn't. That's…" Clint shook his head and took a deep breath. "That's one of the reasons I have to find her. There are too many questions that need answers."

"And if she refuses to give you those answers?" Bobbi asked. "What if she tries to kill you again?"

"Part of the job, right?"

Bobbi grunted in disapproval and closed her eyes with a resigned sigh. "Promise me when you leave you'll stay in contact as much as possible?"

"This is all under the table, Bobbi. If it goes south and I get in trouble…"

"Oh come on, Clint. I'm a big girl, I've handled more than a little heat from my superiors before."

Clint chuckled and leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on Bobbi's bed.

"If you're sure," he said.

"Of course I'm sure. I hate loose ends, and Romanoff is definitely one of them."

Clint and Bobbi talked for a few minutes more until Bobbi finally drifted off to sleep again and Clint slipped out, returning to his own room. He'd been protecting a delicate ray of hope that Bobbi would stay behind, that she wouldn't want to get tangled up in something that could get her fired. He should have known she wouldn't let him go off by himself. But he couldn't exactly explain his real reason for hunting down Romanoff.

She was in trouble, far too deep to get herself out, and these people, this…HYDRA…they would kill her as soon as she wasn't useful to them anymore. It was only a matter of time.


	13. The Twins

**NATASHA**

Natasha stood outside of Vanko's lab, buried up to the knees in snow, with a bitter cold wind whipping around her, biting at the exposed skin of her face. Mountains stretched up towards the sky, like giant black teeth, hedging her in and keeping the rest of the world out. A discrete metal door was tucked in the rock face of the nearest mountain, hidden by the long shadows of the growing twilight.

Strucker stepped out of his helicopter and joined her as he tugged on his leather gloves. He motioned his team of agents forward with a slight flick of his wrist and half a dozen armed men surged ahead, surrounding the door. One agent punched in Vanko's code into a small keypad embedded in the doorframe and the door slid open with the faint squealing protest of metal against metal. Darkness gaped before them, punctuated only by a soft blue glow.

"Are you done with the bullshit now?" Natasha asked, never taking her gaze away from the door as the agents poured inside.

Strucker paused then turned to her in mild surprise. "Pardon?"

"You've been testing me all this time. Pairing me off with your girlfriend so she can keep an eye on me. Putting me in that cell with Vanko just to see how far I'd go to get what you want, to follow your orders."

Strucker returned his gaze to the lab door and clasped his hands behind his back. "You can't exactly blame me for my precautions, Agent Romanoff," he said. "Your loyalties ran deep with the KGB and it was necessary to take extra safety measures for the sake of my agents, especially if you suddenly decided to change your mind about joining HYDRA."

Romanoff cast a sideways glance at him. "And? Have I passed your tests?"

He considered for a moment then nodded once, slowly. "With flying colors, Agent, with flying colors."

They stood in silence for a few minutes more, with nothing passing between them but the wailing wind. Finally, one of the agents returned to the doorway, his posture relaxed, his rifle slack at his side indicating there was no threat, and he gestured them inside.

The lab was a massive underground cavern and it seemed Vanko lived in every inch of it. Papers were strewn across tables and counters, spilling onto the floor, peppered with plates of half-eaten food and crumpled candy wrappers. Along the far side of the lab was a wall of glass windows looking in on living quarters. A small cot sat in each cell, with blankets, pillows, and a bookshelf. Somewhat personalized and comfortable, not cramped and miserable. But they were still cells, Natasha thought, no matter how they were dressed up. They were still small, confined spaces, meant to keep someone in and someone out, to separate one from the other.

Natasha walked down the row of living quarters until she reached the last one, the only one with a faint golden light emanating from it.

Natasha faltered at the sight of them, the twins. Huddled together in their cell, fast asleep, with a wan circle of light from a single bulb in the ceiling to ward off the shadows. The boy's arm was tucked around the girl's shoulders as she rested her head against him. Picture books and stuffed animals lay scattered over their cot.

Natasha pressed her hand to the window. They were so small, probably no older than six or seven years old at the most and yet…and yet they were being hunted, used as weapons…

The little girl squirmed and opened her eyes. She sat up when she noticed the audience of strangers outside her window. Without waking her brother, she slid out from under his arm, padded across the room in her bare feet and thin nightgown, and waved her hand in front of the door. It slid open and she peeked out, watching Natasha and Strucker with large, serious eyes.

"Papa?" she called in Russian.

Natasha caught a flash of memory, painful and sharp as it sliced through her thoughts and rose to the surface in all its bloody glory. She'd been like this too once, a scared little girl, searching for the family she would never see again.

"Your papa isn't here right now," Natasha replied as she took a step forward. Strucker caught her arm and pulled her back.

"Don't," he whispered. "She's dangerous."

He nodded to his agents and they converged on the girl. One agent swiped at her, a dark, gloved arm snaking out towards her. She shrieked and ducked back into the cell. The door snapped shut and gears locked into place. Her brother was awake now, glaring at them, as his sister burrowed behind him and peeked over his shoulder.

Strucker pushed past his agents with impatience and entered Vanko's code on the keypad. He stormed into the cell and caught the girl in one hand and the boy in the other. They squirmed and scratched at him, flailing uselessly in his grip, like trapped butterflies.

"This isn't necessary," Natasha said, raising her voice above the terrified sounds of the twins. "You're scaring them and it's not…"

Her words fell away as the little girl went rigid and red tendrils of a smoke-like substance curled from her fingers, spinning and twirling out to consume her and her brother in a thick fog. Then the red tendrils burst and Natasha was knocked backwards. Her head slammed against the floor and she gasped as all the air rushed out of her lungs. She stared at the ceiling for a moment, stunned, confused, as the twins rushed past her, their bare feet slapping against the cold concrete floor. Natasha rolled over onto her stomach just in time to see the hem of the little girl's nightgown disappear around the corner, deeper into the lab.

Natasha struggled to her feet and the ground seemed to pitch and roll beneath her for a moment. She waited, gripping the edge of a nearby table to steady herself, before the lab stopped spinning and her head stopped pounding. Strucker was on her heels, along with his team of agents, all of them swaying slightly, disoriented by that strange red fog. Natasha gestured for them to stay back.

"You've scared them enough already," she said. "They won't come anywhere near you now."

"You're not handling them on your own," Strucker said.

"Why?" Natasha demanded. "Because they're dangerous? They're little kids. I think I can manage."

Strucker clamped his mouth shut and seethed, but he said nothing more and Natasha hurried after the twins. The lab broke off into half a dozen winding passages that twisted deeper into the mountainside. A few corridors were lit, others were pitch black and certainly unwelcoming places for little children.

After searching for several minutes, Natasha came to a bedroom, fully and comfortably furnished, presumably Vanko's. And tucked in the corner, between a table and a lamp, was a large wooden wardrobe with the edge of a coat sleeve peeking out from between the closed doors.

Natasha edged towards the wardrobe and slowly pulled the doors open. The twins pressed themselves in among a nest of musty old coats, trying to make themselves even smaller than they already were, trying to disappear.

"It's all right," Natasha said in Russian, crouching down in front of them. "I won't let them hurt you."

The little boy was fierce, a fighter already at such a young age as he fixed Natasha with a dark look. The little girl was the one who seemed more inclined towards trusting her. As Natasha spoke, the tension in her tiny body eased a bit and she studied Natasha with interest.

"Where's our papa?" she whispered.

The little boy squeezed her arm. "Quiet, Wanda. Don't talk to her."

"I don't know where your papa is, Wanda," Natasha said, ignoring the boy's glare when she spoke the little girl's name. "But maybe I can help you find him."

Wanda perked up and she glanced at her brother, silently imploring him. They stared at each other for several long moments, and something…something passed between them, something she'd never seen before between a brother and sister. It was as if they carried out an entire conversation in that one look…

The little boy finally seemed to soften and he released his hold on Wanda. She slid out of the wardrobe and hurried across the room to the bedside table. She returned with a picture frame and placed it in Natasha's hands.

"That's Papa," she said, a touch of pride to her voice. "He left a while ago and he said he didn't know when he'd be back."

Natasha's throat tightened as she stared at the picture in her hands. Vanko was seated in his lab, with the twins as toddlers on his lap, a picture book open in front of them.

"I know where your papa is," she said at last, forcing the words out. "I can take you to him if you like."

Wanda's face lit up and the little boy slid out of the wardrobe to stand next to her. They locked hands without even thinking about it, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if they belonged joined together, forever connected.

"Where?" Wanda asked. "Where is he? Is he outside?"

Natasha shook her head as she stood. "He's someplace far away from here. Someplace warmer."

The twins glanced uncertainly at each other and shifted, growing uneasy.

"Papa said not to leave his lab," the little boy said. "No matter what."

Natasha opened her mouth to protest when the twins went rigid, staring past her. She turned to see Strucker coming down the hallway towards them, his broad shoulders filling the door as he entered the room. The twins shuffled behind her, clinging to each other.

"Once again I must congratulate you on a job well done, Agent Romanoff," Strucker said.

"You didn't tell me Vanko was their father," Natasha said.

He shrugged. "Would that have changed the decisions you've made to get here?"

Natasha said nothing. Strucker hummed in triumph.

"I didn't think so. Besides," he said, slowly taking off his gloves, "Vanko isn't there father."

"But…"

"They've been in his custody for most of their lives, yes, but he's not their father. Their parents died when they were too young to remember them."

The little boy darted forward, his small fists pummeling Strucker's stomach. "Liar!" he screeched. "Our papa's alive, he's not dead!"

Strucker rolled his eyes and caught the little boy's wrists with one large hand and, before Natasha could stop him, sank a syringe into his neck. The boy wavered, blinking. His eyes glazed over and he folded up like a puppet as he sagged to the ground. Wanda shrieked and dropped to her knees next to her brother, huddled up against him.

"Pietro?" she squeaked in a trembling voice.

Wanda was oblivious to her surroundings, terrified for her brother, and paid no attention to Strucker as he began to reach for her as well. But Natasha shoved his hand away.

"What the hell are you doing?" she demanded.

Before he could respond, Wanda darted out of the room, flying down the hallway. As she turned the corner, one of Strucker's agents caught her around the middle and Wanda met the same fate as her brother, unconscious in seconds.

Strucker sighed as he looked down at the little boy. Natasha gritted her teeth and balled her hands into fists at her side, willing herself to remain calm, to think clearly.

"This was nothing but a disaster," she growled. "All of it."

Strucker met her gaze with a slight smirk. "I'll take your opinion into consideration, Agent Romanoff."

"It's not an opinion, it's a fact. You could have earned the trust of these kids. You could have…"

Strucker squared his shoulders, rising to his full height, nearly a foot taller than Natasha, a move meant to intimidate her, to make her feel smaller while he was bigger, more in control. He was the leader, she the underling.

"When I want your advice, Agent," he said in a low and measured tone, "I'll ask for it. Until then, you follow my orders and you keep your opinions and your facts to yourself. Is that clear?"

Strucker gestured one of his agents in. Natasha watched as Pietro was picked up, tossed over one shoulder, limp and fragile, then carried out of the room.

"No," she said, crossing her arms. "It's not clear. Tell me why those little kids are so dangerous. Tell me why they have to be handled like that."

The muscle in Strucker's jaw twitched, and his gaze snapped with irritation but he took a breath and when he spoke, his voice was cool and even without a hint of the burning anger that had been boiling just below the surface before.

"They're not human," he said.

Natasha frowned. "What? What do you mean they're not human?"

Strucker shook his head. "You saw that red…smoke…fog…whatever it is surrounding that girl?"

"Wanda," Natasha said.

"What?"

"Her name is Wanda."

Strucker's eyes narrowed. "I didn't realize you had a soft spot for children, Agent Romanoff, otherwise I might have put you on a different mission."

"You wouldn't have gotten this far without me," she pointed out. "Now what is it about the red fog?"

"It's telekinesis. Mind control. Manipulation."

The words were so simple, so straight forward, and yet Natasha had to repeat them several times in her head, playing them over and over.

"Telekinesis," she stated in flat disbelief. "I don't...I don't understand. But that's a myth, it's not real."

"In this case, it is. Believe me, I was just as surprised as you are when I heard, which is why I've had my eye on them for a long time. It's an ability she's had since birth. Same goes for her brother too."

"But humans don't have those kinds of abilities. It's not natural."

Strucker started buttoning up his coat. "I'll answer all of your questions on the way back to headquarters, Agent. All you need to know right now is that even though these children are young and small, they can be deadly in the wrong hands. However, with the correct training and proper studies, these children won't have to hide how special they are. Surely you wouldn't deny them a future like that, Agent Romanoff."

It still didn't sit right with her; something nagged at the back of her mind. She didn't have all the pieces to this yet to make any final decisions. The unwavering trust she'd always held in her judgment was still bruised and shaky from the ordeal in Russia, and Barton, and the KGB. She wanted to believe that the kids were just kids, that they weren't dangerous, but she had a goose egg sized lump on the back of her head from that first encounter with Wanda to prove otherwise. And now…

Now she didn't know what to believe anymore.


	14. Three Months Later

**CLINT – THREE MONTHS LATER**

Clint lay flat on his back in bed as shadows danced across the ceiling, chased by the headlights of passing cars outside his window. He sighed and rolled over, turning his back on the glaring red numbers of the clock beside his bed that ticked away the minutes with agonizing slowness.

3:00am.

3:01am.

3:02am.

Fury moved Clint to a safe house outside of Stockholm a few weeks ago when Clint wouldn't sit still at the hospital anymore, further aggravating his injuries. But it hardly eased Clint's boredom. The place was tiny, no bigger than a closet really, and it didn't help Clint focus at all. The television annoyed him; he couldn't hear it anyway unless it was cranked up to floor-vibrating level which wasn't exactly conducive to staying hidden. Coulson paid a visit once, and left a stack of paperbacks behind, but Clint had read through them all within the first two weeks. Twice.

All he could think about was Romanoff, a roaring chant in his head for all hours of the day. Hiding out only God knew where.

Clint clung to the thought of Romanoff like a lifeline above the boiling waters of insanity licking at his heels. If he stopped trying to figure out his next move with her, his mind started to wander into the dangerous, mine-filled territory of his hearing loss. And that, he'd decided long ago, was a road strictly off limits.

When Clint had been in the hospital, he did nothing but test his hearing over and over again. The muted, drowned quality of his surroundings frustrated him. He'd crank up the hospital's small, chunky television until he could feel the vibrations in the floor. And yet, the only thing he'd been able to hear was a low, buzzing drone, like one pissed off bee buzzing around in his head. Then half a dozen angry nurses would flock into his room and wrestle the remote control from him, chastising him. He still couldn't hear a word they said. Just the bee, buzz, buzz, buzz.

In the quiet, long, gray hours of the early morning, Clint would lie in his hospital bed and, slowly, tentatively, close off his good ear – barely functioning as it was – to leave his deaf ear exposed. It terrified him. Never had he heard silence so…complete. So dead. He hadn't paid much attention to the noise that existed around him on a daily basis until it wasn't there anymore. The hum of voices. The whispering rush of traffic. The soft swish of his tshirt when he moved. It was all gone.

So Clint made himself stop thinking about it and he occupied himself with Romanoff instead. He might not be a SHIELD agent much longer, after the disaster that was Russia, after the disaster that was his hearing, but he was going to track her down, no matter what. He just had to figure out how. Week after week, he watched people from his third story apartment window and silently pleaded for his body to heal a little faster so he could get back to work again.

When a faint blush of golden light tinged the gray, shadowy cobwebs shrouding the ceiling, Clint eased himself up into a sitting position and pushed off his tangled covers. He sighed and gritted his teeth against the ache in his ribs. His body just wasn't going to be ready then, he thought. He'd have to muscle through because he was not going to sit around anymore.

As Clint headed for the shower, movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. He startled and took a step back, tense and ready to defend himself.

Fury stood in the doorway of his bedroom, one hand raised in surrender.

"Take it easy," he said. "Didn't mean to sneak up on you."

Clint could barely hear a word Fury said but he got the gist of it anyway. Fury held out a small box and pointed at his ear.

"Is this the…" Clint's throat constricted. He still couldn't quite bring himself to say "hearing aid." It made everything too final, and a tiny, desperate part of him wanted to hold out hope that he'd wake up one day and everything would be back to normal again.

"Earpiece," Fury said, tapping his ear.

Clint popped the box open to find a small, discreet earpiece inside. He slid it into his good ear and clicked it on.

"Welcome back, Agent Barton," Fury said with the bare hint of a smile.

Clint sucked in a breath, his chest tight at the sound of Fury's voice, clear, strong, and so crisp. His hands started to shake with relief and he tightened his grip on the box.

"It's good…" He paused, willing his voice to be steady before he continued. "It's good to hear you again, Fury."

"Don't get sentimental on me now, Agent," Fury replied.

"And Bobbi? How is she?"

"She's fine. Stubborn and sarcastic as ever. Spending time with you hasn't helped those charming personality traits either."

Clint bit back a smile. Keeping tabs on Bobbi had been difficult after he'd left the hospital. Fury insisted they stay separated for safety purposes, just as a precaution. But it sounded like Bobbi was already back to her old self.

Fury clasped his hands behind his back and bounced forward on his toes a bit. "She would have come today herself but she's been in enough trouble as it is. If we're going to blow SHIELD protocol all to hell, I better do it myself."

Clint's eyebrows shot up. "…pardon?"

"Just remember you heard none of this from me. I don't technically have any of this information in my possession and I certainly shouldn't be passing it along to you."

Clint snapped his mouth shut and waited, his pulse racing.

"The Council isn't happy with the way Russia was handled," Fury said.

"Because I screwed up and Romanoff got away," Clint said, his voice flat with disappointment.

Fury shook his head. "Because of a lot of things that didn't have anything to do with you."

"I sense a 'but' in there somewhere."

Fury sighed and rubbed his hand along his jaw before he took a seat in the chair across from Clint's bed.

"Don't let the Council get under your skin. They're not your concern. I'll handle them."

Clint cast a sideways look at him. "But…"

"They want to suspend your status as active agent."

Clint let out a puff of air like he'd been punched in the gut. "For how long?"

"Indefinitely."

Clint's mouth dropped open as he struggled to pull in a breath but all he managed was a tiny wheeze.

"And you…agree?" he rasped out.

Fury fixed Clint with a hard look. "I really couldn't say. But you should know the agents I've assigned to keep tabs on you will be going to breakfast right about…" He paused, raised his gaze to the ceiling for a moment then returned his attention to Clint. "Now. And they'll be gone for exactly forty-five minutes so I suggest you make the best use of that time while you can."

Clint's heart hammered in his chest as the full implication of Fury's words set in. If he went after Romanoff, he'd lose his job with SHIELD and the second chance he had tried so hard to keep would be gone, irretrievable. But if he stayed put and respected the Council's decision…he'd likely lose his job anyway.

Fury stood and tugged at his coat, folding his hands in front of him. "If you happen to disappear in that amount of time…well…I wouldn't have the slightest idea where you managed to skip off to."

Clint swallowed hard. "You mean…"

"Don't think for one minute I've sanctioned any of your choices while you're suspended," Fury said in a firm tone. "If we're going to get technical here, you're not under SHIELD jurisdiction at the moment. In normal circumstances, I would try to talk you out of it, threaten you, lock you up, whatever was necessary to prevent you from doing any of this. But…" he sighed. "I've learned a long time ago that when my agents have unfinished business, they will do everything in their power to finish the job. Otherwise I wouldn't have recruited them in the first place."

Clint gave a sharp nod. "Thank you, sir."

Fury waved him off. "Don't thank me. Just do what you have to and don't get yourself killed in the process. Besides, Agent Morse was the one who convinced me to side with you instead of the Council. Granted, the Council makes plenty of stupid ass decisions, but I was inclined to agree with them this one time."

"Oh," was all Clint said. How many times had he thought about this? Flying solo. Tracking down Romanoff whether or not he had permission from SHIELD. But he never thought he'd have to carry through with it. He shook his head and beat down the surge of discouragement. Bobbi still supported him. And even though Fury might not agree with his decision one hundred percent, he wasn't putting on the brakes either.

"I don't like agreeing with the Council, Barton," Fury said. He lowered his voice and Clint could have sworn there was a slightly playful gleam in Fury's eye when he said, "Bobbi wants to rub it in my face that she's right and I'm wrong. She's putting her ass on the line for you. I suggest you make sure you back her up."

"She won't regret it," Clint replied as relief swept through him.

The corner of Fury's mouth twitched, barely noticeable. Then he straightened his shoulders and he was back to the intimidating Director of SHIELD again.

"Good luck, Barton," he said as he headed for the door. "And grab yourself a cup of coffee. You look like hell warmed over."

After Fury shut the door, Clint glanced at the clock. Forty minutes left before the agents returned. He burst into action, stuffed what little clothes he had into a backpack and tugged on his shoes as he started for the door. He paused, one shoe on, the other in his hand as he passed the kitchen counter.

A steaming mug of coffee sat in the middle of the counter with a newspaper pinned under it. Clint hadn't made coffee that morning. And today's newspaper hadn't been delivered yet.

He dropped his shoe and tugged at the newspaper. Tucked into the folds was his pistol, issued by SHIELD. He mouthed a silent thank you to Fury and slipped the pistol into the waistband of his jeans.

[][][]

Clint tugged his cap lower against the wind as he walked the streets of Russia again. It was a different ball game this time around. The chances were anyone he passed on the street could recognize him now. SHIELD would report him. HYDRA would kill him. Without Bobbi in his ear coaching him along, his Russian was going to suck, leaving him at a severe disadvantage and making him stick out even more. But he wasn't leaving until he got even the slightest tail on Romanoff's whereabouts.

Clint decided to start in the area around the theater, where all this began in the first place, and work his way out from there. He stayed on the darker streets, providing an easy exit to slip away unnoticed if necessary. He did his best to venture probing questions without raising too much suspicion. As soon as he started getting weird looks, he vanished and moved on to another street.

After hours of walking, Clint's body ached and he had nothing more than what he'd set out with. He stopped in at a crunchy little motel, sickly yellow and crumbling around the edges, paid in cash, and kept his face concealed by the shadow of his hat. The room was bare, small, and pale, with dark cracks and shadows snaking down the walls, reaching for him. He wedged a chair under the door, pulled his pistol from his backpack and set it on the nightstand. He shed his coat with a heavy sigh and sagged onto the bed.

Somewhere in the hazy hours of morning, a light tap woke him. Clint sat up, hand already on the pistol. A shadow darted through the thin bar of light under the door. His breath caught in his throat and he tightened his grip on the gun. With a soft whisper, a black envelope was shoved under the door and skimmed across the wooden floor a few inches. The shadow outside the door moved again and disappeared.

Clint waited until a full minute had passed with no further signs of movement before he reached for the envelope. The faint scent of smoke and spices rose from the paper, teasing at him, beckoning him to open it. Inside, an ivory piece of paper, stark against the dark envelope, peeked out.

_Lady Newmark requests your presence at The House of Lotus._

At the bottom, a black lotus flower was etched into the paper in black ink. Clint frowned and flipped it over. Nothing. What was that supposed to mean?

He shook his head and tossed the envelope in the trash. But he couldn't get back to sleep again, his nerves too jittery from being woken by a visitor in the middle of the night. By the time sunlight began to filter through his curtains, Clint was already up and heading out the door.

As he stepped into the cramped hallway of the motel, two Asian men in suits came towards him on his right. Clint kept his head down, his shoulders curled forward, making himself as invisible as possible as he turned and walked the other way. He picked up his pace and just when he reached the exit, two more Asian men in suits stepped through the door and blocked his path. He tensed, his stance rigid, his body prepared to fight.

"Lady Newmark is waiting," one suit said in perfect English.

A split second of confusion muddled Clint's thoughts until the memory of the black envelope floated to the surface.

"I'm not interested in any party invitations, thanks," he said.

"It concerns Natasha Romanoff."

Clint froze, his pulse pounding. "How do I know you're not working for her? Maybe you'll kill me."

The suit's lips twitched. "We mean you no harm."

"Says the dude who's got me outnumbered in a dark hallway," Clint countered.

Silence. Not one of the men moved. Clint scrambled for an escape plan but there didn't seem to be many options available. He could try shooting his way out but that probably wouldn't end well. These men were bruisers, bodyguards, ready to use whatever means necessary to get him to do what they said. He'd met one too many men like them at the circus…It had never ended well then either, come to think of it. And Clint couldn't afford to get hurt again, not now.

Clint shifted and adjusted the strap of his backpack against his shoulder. "Fine," he said. "Let's pay a visit to whoever this Lady Newmark is."

The suit gave a slight nod, stepped aside, and opened the door. A small black car waited outside.

"Oh boy," Clint sighed. "Here we go."

[][][]

The House of Lotus was buried deep in the heart of Chinatown, seemingly worlds away from the lavish Bolshoi theater. The small shop was full of bizarre curiosities that Clint might otherwise have paid some attention to if he hadn't been manhandled into the situation. It all brought back memories of the circus. Not the manhandling, though that did raise some unpleasant memories from long ago. It was the shop, with strange masks, furs, feathers, and any manner of weird little odds and ends that didn't fit anywhere else in the world. That was what the circus had been like, that's why he loved it so much and called it home, collecting the oddballs nobody wanted…

"See anything you like, Mr. Barton?"

Clint snapped around. An Asian woman came forward, dressed in a long silk black dress with a silver sash around her waist.

"Or do you prefer to be called Agent Barton?" she said, lowering her tone to a mock, conspiratorial whisper.

"Lady Newmark I take it," Clint replied, his voice cold.

She inclined her head forward once, slowly.

"How do you know my name?" he demanded. "And how did you know where I was staying?"

She smiled, a cat-like smile, a hunter with her prey exactly where she wanted it to be. "It's my business to know these things. A little bird told me you've been looking for information on our dear Natasha Romanoff."

Clint frowned and started to ask how she knew that, too, but she cut him off with a lazy wave of her hand.

"Time is precious for both of us, Agent Barton. I have information you've been looking for. Do you want it or not?"

Clint gritted his teeth. He didn't like how this was playing out at all. Information was rarely cheap and certainly never handed out for free. But it was the first possible lead he'd found since he set foot on Russian soil again and he wasn't exactly in a position to refuse what little he could scrounge up, no matter what the circumstances.

"Yes," he said. "I want it."

"Good," Newmark purred. "Now, I…"

"But you have to tell me something first," Clint cut in.

Newmark snapped her mouth shut and a flash of anger flared in her gaze. The cool composure cracked for a split second then slipped back into place and that wicked smile returned.

"Ask what you like."

"What business do you have with Romanoff?"

Newmark narrowed her eyes slightly. "We've worked together in the past," she said. When she didn't seem inclined to share any more than that, Clint shook his head.

"Changed my mind," he said. "Seems like you don't have anything I'd be interested in after all."

Newmark said nothing while Clint turned around and made for the door. Two suits from the hallway blocked the door and Clint was fully prepared so shove his way past them, violence be damned.

"Wait," Newmark said softly.

Clint stopped but kept his back to Newmark until she continued speaking.

"Romanoff and I both had people we wished to protect. I provided her with information she wanted, and in return, she kept me up to date on certain details of the KGB I held a personal interest in."

Clint finally turned around and eyed her sharply. "Like what?"

"That's part of the information I have to share with you, Agent Barton," she said. "But if you threaten to run out on me, our visit will be tragically cut short, I'm afraid."

"I'm listening," Clint said.

Newmark met his gaze without hesitation, steady and unwavering. "I'm not sentimental, Agent. I'm a business woman. All I want is to protect my people. Unfortunately, I can no longer afford to go out on a limb to help Romanoff any further. She's in over her head. She's been lied to. Many times."

"I know," Clint replied. "That's why I'm looking for her and…"

Newmark shook her head. "No. You don't know."

She turned away and disappeared behind a beaded curtain for a moment before she came back and held up another black envelope. Clint took it from her and tore it open. Pictures spilled into his hands.

Romanoff at practice, her ballet slippers unlaced as she rubbed her feet.

Romanoff at the circus with Clint.

Romanoff covered in blood, her eyes glazed with shock as Clint tried to shake her back from reality.

A cold finger of dread slithered down Clint's spine as he came to the next picture. A man with a sniper rifle perched above the circus, the brightly colored striped tents mere ghosts in the distance.

Clint's head snapped up to meet Newmark's gaze. "You know who the shooter is. Did you tell her?"

Newmark sighed. "I only found out recently and by then it was too late. It's not safe for me or my people to be in contact with her anymore."

Clint looked at the picture again, struggling to identify the shooter. "Who is he?"

Newmark was silent for so long that Clint finally glanced up again. Her lips were tight, her eyes hard.

"William Strucker. Head of HYDRA. Romanoff works for him now."

Protests burst to Clint's lips then died with a shocked sputter.

"She doesn't know," Newmark added. "They lied to her. Something about an inside job with the KGB. Contrary to my personal beliefs, Strucker isn't an idiot. He knew it would be an unwise decision to make an enemy of one of the best assassins in the business. With Romanoff on his side, well, his success would go uncontested."

Clint's head was spinning. "How do I know you're not lying? Romanoff wouldn't make a stupid move like this."

"Because you already suspect that the pieces don't fit, Agent Barton. That's why you returned to Russia. Isn't it?"

Clint rubbed a hand over his face. If only he could just think for a few minutes, maybe he could make sense of all this. Somehow.

"Do you know where she is?" Clint asked. Whether Newmark's story checked out or not, he had to get to Romanoff. That's all he knew for sure.

Newmark took the photos from him and flipped to the last photo in the batch. Romanoff stood in a large golden hallway in a dark blue evening gown, her arm looped through a man's elbow, his back to the camera. Her fiery hair had been dyed black and was swept to one side to show off the long expanse of her neck and bare shoulders.

"She was spotted last week at the Houses of Parliament in Budapest, Hungary," Newmark said.

Clint wanted to bolt. Even if Romanoff had moved on by now, he was getting closer. So, so much closer.

Newmark crossed her arms. Clint slowly came back to the present, dreading the next hook Newmark might throw at him.

"What do I owe you for this?" he asked.

Newmark considered for a moment. She reached out and slid one long black nail down his cheek, down his neck, trailing over his Adam's apple, until she stopped at the base of his throat. Of all the threats Clint had received in his life, this was certainly one he hadn't experienced before. Her gaze flicked up. Clint swallowed.

"Kill that bastard Strucker," she said. "For all of us. I've buried too many of my people because of him. I only wish I had the honor of finishing him off personally."

She stepped back and her hand slipped away from him. "Now leave. Before I change my mind and demand something else from you for that precious piece of information I'm letting you walk away with. Don't disappoint me, Agent Barton."

Clint didn't have to be told twice. He left the shop and hightailed it out of Russia with the pictures of Romanoff tucked inside his jacket.


	15. A Delicate Balance

**NATASHA – A DELICATE BALANCE**

This was all wrong.

Natasha hadn't seen the twins in months. Strucker claimed it was for their own protection, that she would distract them and upset them while they were settling in. The harder she pushed to see them, the more he denied her.

Russia was crawling with SHIELD agents now so the twins had been moved to Strucker's lab in Hungary – a former train tunnel underneath the capitol of Budapest. It was a far cry from Strucker's previous holdings and the move hadn't exactly put him in the best of moods.

But today marked three months since she'd last had contact with the twins of any kind and Natasha was done being put off. She was going to see them. Today.

Natasha marched into the facility, glaring at the myriad of guards on duty. Ever since HYDRA had formed and SHIELD had cracked down on their security measures around the world, Strucker had retaliated with tighter security measures of his own. It wasn't like that made much of a difference to Natasha. She could get in wherever she wanted to.

None of the guards tried to stop her. They knew she had higher access than most of them did…except for those double cells at the far end of the tunnel, always locked, with no windows, and two little children tucked inside.

Strucker was looming over a desk with half a dozen scientists surrounding him when Natasha stepped into the room. She knew he saw her, but he continued on as if she wasn't there.

"Strucker," she said. "I want to see the twins."

"You know my views on that, Romanoff," he replied without even bothering to look up from his work.

"I have a connection with them. I can get through to them where you won't be able to."

That got him to look up, with the tiniest spark of anger in his gaze. But it was quickly quelled, replaced by a small, polite – though a bit tight – smile.

"That's the problem though, isn't it?" he said. "I want them to bond with me. They will obey my orders, not yours."

A curl of dread tightened in her stomach as the realization she'd been holding off for so long finally surfaced.

"You're using them as weapons already," she said. "They're too young for that. How can you…?"

Strucker interrupted with a loud sigh of impatience. "There's no need for such righteous indignation. You were already highly trained by the time you were their age."

"I'm not the best example to use for comparison. I kill people. A lot of them."

"And your skills are coveted around the world."

Natasha closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. She should have seen this coming. Maybe a small part of her had made the connection a long time ago but she hadn't wanted to acknowledge it. After Ivan's death, it had been comforting to fall back on her training and look at nothing beyond that. But seeing those small children in that lab, carried off by Strucker's men…it had hit a chord somewhere deep inside her that she couldn't quite bury no matter how hard she tried. The red fog she had locked herself into was beginning to clear and she didn't like how far things were slipping out of her control in such a short amount of time.

"Let me see them," Natasha repeated.

Strucker met her gaze, unwavering. "No."

There was a burn in her chest now, making it hard to breathe. "You didn't even give them a choice."

"Of course I did. I gave you a choice when you joined HYDRA, didn't I?"

Barely, she thought. It wasn't like she had many options in the first place. It seemed as if her life was compromised solely of "choices" like that, between a rock and a hard place, with neither option holding much appeal. Kill or be killed.

When Natasha didn't reply, Strucker picked up a file from the desk and handed it to her.

She accepted it and flipped through. She flipped through again then held it up. "What is this?"

"A mission I need taken care of."

"It's a regularly scheduled weapons and ammunition pick up. In and out, quick and easy. Why are you putting me on this?"

"Because I trust you to get the job done."

Natasha dropped the file back onto the desk with a smack that snapped in the silence between them.

"You keep saying that but this," she jabbed a finger at the file, "proves otherwise. You don't trust me. If you did, you'd let me see the twins."

The muscle in Strucker's jaw was ticking away now at a fast clip.

"I think it's best if you had a little more basic fieldwork to cool your heels, Romanoff," he said. "You're far too close to this which is unusual for you and I have to say…it concerns me. I don't like what I've been seeing from you lately. Ivan's death affected more than just you and…"

"Don't," she growled. "I don't want to talk about it."

Strucker paused then spread his hands. "Then I can't let you near the twins, not in your current state. I'm ordering you to take this mission, Romanoff. Work off some steam. And you will continue to take the missions I assign you. With no objections."

Natasha stared back at him. Hard. Then she snatched up the file and stalked out of the building.

[][][]

For two weeks straight, Strucker put her on more run of the mill jobs. She didn't make a peep about the twins in case it earned her more mind-numbing work. By the start of the third week, a thought slithered through her mind in the early hours of the morning as she stared at the ceiling of her hotel room, a thought she didn't even try to stomp out. She swept her covers aside, fired up her laptop, and started creating blueprints of Strucker's lab in that abandoned train tunnel.

Natasha knew this first step would set her on a path she wasn't entirely sure she should take. But she was taking it nonetheless. For the twins. All she needed was one look, just to see if they were okay, that they weren't scared out of their wits.

Natasha paused for a split second, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Breaking into Strucker's lab. What was she _thinking_? If she got caught, she'd be in the wind, belonging to no one and nothing. Alone. That was the one thought that made her hesitate, only for a moment. She liked to tell herself that she preferred it that way, that she was used to it. But she wasn't. Not really. Ivan had taught her that. And Alexei.

Natasha closed her eyes. "No," she said aloud. _Don't think like that._

She shook her head and picked up her work again, twice as determined. If Strucker was going to use those kids before they were ready, if he forced them into murder…she wanted no part in an organization that required such mandates. That's what the KGB had carved out of her, she wasn't doing that again.

But what if she was wrong? What if HYDRA wasn't taking that route and she was jumping to conclusions? As much as she hated to admit that Strucker was right, he was. Her judgment had been screwed up ever since Ivan's death and she didn't know how to get back on track again. And if she really was wrong about HYDRA, if she got caught or slipped up and Strucker found out she broke into his lab to see the twins, expressly going against his orders…he'd be brutally relentless until he hunted her down and finished her off for turning against him.

Well, she just wouldn't get caught then.

[][][]

Natasha wasn't going to rush this, no matter how much she wanted to. Timing was everything. Strucker was still keeping an eye on her for insisting on seeing the twins and standing up to him all those weeks ago. His attention seemed to be easing up the slightest bit but she wasn't risking it just yet. There was a very, very delicate balance she wasn't going to upset.

Natasha did every mundane job Strucker handed her and on the rare occasion, she even managed to do it all with a smile. She could feel herself slipping into that mode again, the one where she tucked herself away and put on whatever persona her target desired. Deep down, she wasn't even sure her true self existed in the mess inside her now, drowned in the sea of personalities she wore and discarded as easily as an article of clothing. Ivan had kept her grounded, let her know who she was when she felt lost. But she didn't have that anchor anymore and she wasn't sure she'd ever get it back again.

Then, an entire month after Strucker forbid her from access to the twins, Natasha spotted her first window of opportunity. Strucker was headed out to meet with a scientist he felt did promising work that might help the twins. And Natasha was to stay behind.

She'd been waiting for this moment, running through the plan over and over in her mind when she couldn't sleep at night. She made sure plenty of guards saw her leave the facility at her usual time and drive away. After ditching the car a few blocks further down the road under a bridge, she circled back, disabled the security cameras for ten seconds, and slipped in through the air vents from the locker room.

Pinning down the security protocols in place had been complicated. She had helped Strucker choose which ones to implement but she wasn't stupid. There would be more that he didn't tell her about, kept tucked up his sleeve for emergencies because that's what she would do. That's what everyone did in this line of work. No one showed all their tricks at once. Ever.

It was slow going, crawling on her elbows and knees, struggling to keep quiet as the metal buckled beneath her body weight. Crawling through air vents wasn't unusual on her job and she had picked up a few tricks over the years on how to evenly distribute her weight on her hands and toes to prevent the metal from groaning and giving her away.

To make things more difficult, security cameras and heat sensors had been placed in the air vents to prevent just such an infiltration as hers. So every ten feet or so, Natasha had to pause, consult the miniature computer embedded in her wristwatch, scrambled the cameras, and crawled through.

It wasn't a foolproof plan. She could only scramble the cameras a certain number of times before extra security measures would be put into place to check out the disturbance. That had been her suggestion too…

Natasha was only a few turns away from the rooms the twins were being held in when the wailing screech of the alarm went off. She let out a string of curses then checked to see if she'd tripped anything. She still had at least three more tries at the cameras before she warranted an alarm. She was clean. So what the hell was going on?

Natasha shook her head as she backtracked as fast as she could. Whatever was happening, the chances just skyrocketed that her cover had been blown.

She slipped out of the ventilation system and dropped back into the locker room. Thirty seconds later, and Natasha was transformed to another concerned agent looking for the security breach.

As she barked orders to the nearest guard to check the perimeter, Strucker came striding into the facility, completely unperturbed by the chaos around him. He nodded as he passed her on his way to his desk and his gaze lingered for a moment longer than she thought was necessary. Then she shook her head. Guilt. That's all it was. Guilt, and the realization that she had cut things much too close.

Natasha walked away from the lab that night and no one stopped her. She let out a breath of relief while at the same time her mind was spinning with how she could possibly risk getting to the twins now.

The next day, the guilt came rushing back in when Strucker called her to his office. He gestured to the chair across from him and propped his elbows on his desk. Natasha forced herself to release the growing tension in her muscles. This wasn't a confrontation, Strucker was too casual for that. She ached to ask about the scientist he met with the previous night but she held off, in case it would earn her a longer to-do list.

"I've been impressed with your cooperation over the past few weeks," he said. "You seem to be getting yourself back together quite well."

Natasha dipped her head in acknowledgement. One step closer to the twins.

"I'd like to put you on a job with me tonight," he continued. "Wining and dining a potential client."

He slid the file across the desk and she picked it up. Now this was what Natasha was used to. This was the kind of mission she was meant to do.

"Dress accordingly," he said.

[][][]

The night club was pulsing with a throbbing bass beat as Natasha clung to Strucker's arm in a tiny little white dress and go-go boots. It didn't take long to figure out what her role would be once she read the file and realized she wasn't going to be the one wining and dining the client. Natasha was only there as a distraction, to sit there and flutter her eyelashes but never allowed to speak.

She would have killed for a run of the mill job now.

As Strucker approached the designated table to meet his client, he pulled away from Natasha and made a show of kissing either cheek.

"Fetch us some drinks, sweetheart," he yelled over the roaring music.

Natasha could have sworn there was a faint smirk teasing at his lips. Instead, she gritted her teeth, forced a smile, and made her way to the bar. _Fetch._ Damn him. She. Never. Fetched. But she was going to make damn sure Strucker waited a good long time for his drinks to arrive.

Natasha gestured to the bartender for two drinks and as she turned, leaning back on the bar, she saw him. Through the crushing waves of bodies on the dance floor, through the haze of smoke and perfume and strobe lights, she knew without a doubt that it was him.

Barton.


	16. Bad News and Promises

Clint wasn't sure it was her at first and he did a double-take. The platinum blonde hair, the tiny white dress, and the thick black eyeliner…it was worlds apart from the prim and proper Russian ballerina he had become so familiar with all those months ago.

He had been all over Budapest, walking the streets until his feet throbbed, searching for information, no matter how small, on Romanoff's whereabouts and he'd come up with precious little. Just when he was about to give up, when he had finally decided to grab a drink and call it a night…she was there. Right in front of him. After the hell he'd been through to hunt her down, after the hell SHE put him through herself…she was finally only a few feet away. All it would take was a step or two and he could reach out and touch her.

Clint had replayed this moment in his head a thousand times. What he would say to her. How she would spit at him to leave her alone. The inevitable attempt to kill him. Romanoff had spared his life once already. He was under no illusions that she would spare him a second time.

Romanoff turned her back to him, her elbows propped on the bar. She'd seen him. He knew it. She had seen him but she would pretend she hadn't, faking it for his sake while she still held that last sliver of mercy, an olive branch of peace that was withering fast the more he pushed his luck.

Clint knew he had a very short window of opportunity to get to her before she either high-tailed it out of here or her patience ran dry. He'd already taken a ton of risks to track her down. Might as well take the direct approach.

Clint pushed through the crowd and headed for the bar, sidling right up next to Romanoff. She kept her gaze straight ahead and sipped at her drink. But Clint could feel the cold fury radiating off her just by one look at her rigid shoulders, the tense line of her spine.

So he played along.

He propped his elbows on the bar alongside her and retrieved the envelope of pictures from his inner jacket pocket. Slid it over to her. Without looking at him, Romanoff shoved it back. Clint pressed his hand over the envelope and held it there until she gave up and turned away from him, ignoring him.

As if that would be enough to discourage him and make him leave.

After a full minute passed in silence, Romanoff finally spoke.

"Go away," she growled.

Clint shook his head and gestured to the bar tender for a beer. "Nope, don't think so," he said. "I went through a lot of trouble to find you. I'm not about to head out again when we've got so much catching up to do."

Romanoff sucked in a breath, jaw clenched tight. "So you're a glutton for punishment then."

Clint tipped his head to the side, screwed one eye shut as if he had to think about it. "Yeah, I'd say that's pretty accurate."

Romanoff tossed back the last of her drink and squeezed the glass so tight that her knuckles went ghostly white.

"Do you have a death wish?" she hissed. "I _will_ kill you."

"You mean like the last time we met?" He leaned in close and lowered his voice. "Because you had the chance to put a bullet in me and you didn't take it. Instead, you chose to use fireworks and a little sleight of hand to throw your buddies off the scent."

Slowly, Romanoff turned her head to look at him. And there was something there, hidden, a shadow so fleeting Clint almost missed it in the strobing neon lights and the heavy cloud of cigarette smoke of the bar and the thick eyeliner casting darkness over Romanoff's eyes. It wasn't fear exactly.

But it was close.

And whatever it was, it made her hesitate when she would have already been moving. She was doing that more and more around him. Hesitating. Letting him off the hook when she already had so much blood on her hands from taking the killing blow dozens of times before without this foreign hesitancy.

"You have to leave," she said, each word measured and even.

Clint met her stare and edged a little closer until his nose nearly touched hers. "No."

"Damn you," she growled und her breath.

But her voice wasn't steady, the slightest tremor rattling her words. She glanced away from him again and this time, Clint craned around her to see what kept drawing her attention. It wasn't easy to pin down what she was looking at in the crowded club until he finally figured it out. Tucked in the corner at a table were two men, wreathed in a cloud of cigar smoke, and one – the broad shouldered, mean looking one – was openly staring back at them.

Clint ripped open the envelope and dumped the pictures on the bar. He spread them out, searching, until he found the picture of the sniper…

A perfect match. He was standing only a few feet away from Strucker himself.

"Holy shit," he whispered.

Romanoff snatched the picture. For a moment, she held perfectly still. Then her hands started to shake and her breathing went short and shallow.

"Where…?" She swallowed, tried again. "Where did you get this?"

"Courtesy of the House of Lotus."

Romanoff closed her eyes and placed her hands flat against the top of the bar.

"You're lying," she said, her voice strangled and too tight.

"You know I'm not," Clint replied quietly.

For a moment, less than a moment, Romanoff's face crumpled. Then, as quickly as she'd slipped, she was back under control again, smooth, composed.

"And you came all this way," she said, "to show me this?"

He shrugged. "You're in a tight spot. I know a little of what that's like. Besides, if it makes you feel any better, I've had revenge planned for the past few months. At least until I walked in here and found you that is."

A small smile teased at the corner of Romanoff's lips and that was enough for him.

Movement out of the corner of Clint's eye drew his attention. Strucker stood, buttoned his suit jacket, and strode towards them. Clint tried to keep tabs on Strucker's hands, drifting so close and so easily towards his pockets, but as Strucker moved through the crowd, too many bodies blocked his vision and he couldn't tell if Strucker had a weapon or not.

"Are you armed?" Romanoff said, her gaze once again straight ahead.

Clint nodded. "You bet."

She cast an appreciative look in his direction as she straightened, her hands sliding away from the bar. She turned to face him full on and her fingers ducked inside his jacket. He caught her wrist but she didn't flinch or look away, didn't fight back.

"If you think I'm seriously going to let you just take my gun…" he said.

"I'm not armed but the man behind me, the one you saw at the table. He is. And he's seen me talking to you. If I don't cover you, you're not getting out of here alive."

"How do I know you won't shoot me?"

"You don't. There's a shotgun under the bar. Keep your head down."

Before Clint could protest, a shot like thunder exploded in the club. Pain ignited in his left shoulder and he hit the floor flat on his back, the air knocked out of his lungs until all he could do was gasp.

The club was a churning mass of chaos as people scrambled for the doors. A clear circle of undisturbed space surrounded Strucker, gun in hand. Romanoff stood over Clint as she backed up, herding him behind the bar.

The bullet was lodged in his shoulder, leaving behind a wake of fire, but he could still manage some small movement. For a split second, he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.

"I hate guns," he grumbled as he clamped his hand around the shotgun. "Sick of people shooting at me. And I won't even get a raise after all this."

He braced the shotgun against his good shoulder and stood, positioning himself back to back with Romanoff.

There were only two ways out of this club, the entrance – now covered by two men with heavy semi-automatics – and the kitchen off to Clint's left. Clint could dive for the kitchen and make it, but Romanoff wouldn't. There was too much ground to cover and not enough time to do it in.

"You almost had me convinced you were flirting with that American, Romanoff," Strucker said. "But I can tell when a man carries a gun and when he doesn't. Same as you."

Romanoff held up the photograph. "You killed Ivan."

"I got rid of a liability."

"He was like a father to me," she spat through clenched teeth.

And even though Clint couldn't see her with his back turned, he flinched at the venom in her words. He knew she must be shaking with barely restrained fury.

"He was making you soft," Strucker said. "You don't need distractions, Romanoff. You need to do what I tell you when I tell you to do it. Ivan was slowing you down. So was Alexei."

Clint froze. A pause of silence stretched so tight, he didn't dare breathe for fear of making it snap.

"Alexei?" Romanoff whispered, so, so quiet.

Clint could practically feel the smugness radiating off of Strucker.

"You were never supposed to love him, Romanoff," he said, as if he was talking to a small child who couldn't grasp a fundamental, basic concept. "He was assigned to turn you to HYDRA years ago. But then…" Strucker gave a heavy sigh. "Feelings got in the way. And he refused. Said he didn't want to betray you, or something useless like that."

"Alexei," Romanoff repeated, her voice sharper this time with the broken edges of rage rising red hot, pulsing with heat.

Then chaos exploded.

Clint couldn't tell who fired first but he didn't care. The whole thing had gone to hell long ago and it was only a matter of time before the bullets started flying. He covered for Romanoff as she slid over the bar and dropped next to him. Glass and alcohol blossomed around them, rained down into their hair and nicked at their faces and hands.

Clint crouched, shotgun leveled towards the ground. Bullets slid into chambers, magazines were reloaded, the grind and click of metal against metal the only sound in the room.

Romanoff fumbled through the shelves beneath the counter until she grabbed a dishrag in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. Clint's eyebrows hit his hairline.

"Time for a little cocktail party?" he asked.

"I'm going to blow that bastard to hell," Romanoff growled.

Clint hesitated before he finally sucked up his courage and reached out, barely grazing her arm with two fingers. She shook him off without looking at him. But he had followed her this far into trouble, taken a bullet for her as well as from her, and he refused to give up that easily.

He curled his fingers around her wrist and she fought him, just like he knew she would.

"No," she said, "you won't stop me."

"I'm not trying to," he replied. "If you'd_ listen_ for a second."

But she continued her attempts to twist out of his grip. Any moment now, she would resort to breaking something – his nose, his fingers, maybe a few ribs – if he didn't catch her attention.

"Natasha," he hissed. "Jesus, I'm here to _help_ you."

She finally went still and glared at him.

"Don't get us killed in the process, all right?" he said.

She studied him then looked away. "You mean you're here to keep tabs on me. That I'm your _mission_."

The way she said that last word, mission, like it was bitter in her mouth and she couldn't get it out fast enough, told Clint she knew more about him than he thought.

"Yes you are," he said. "But not in the way that you think. Not anymore."

She opened her mouth, almost as if she would protest further, but Strucker spoke first.

"Come out, Romanoff," he said. "And we'll forget this ever happened."

Romanoff jammed the dish cloth into the top of the bottle so hard that Clint grimaced, expecting the glass to burst in her hands. She sifted under the counter for a lighter but Clint found it first and held it out to her. She glanced up at him.

"Don't miss this time," he said.

She curled her fingers around the lighter, her thumb barely brushing against his with a spark of white hot fire. Clint shoved that realization to the back of his mind. Romanoff lit the Molotov cocktail and tossed it over the counter.

A burst of flames licked at Strucker's feet. Clint pushed Romanoff ahead of him towards the door as he covered for her, shooting blind into the smoke and fire. He stumbled into the kitchen after Romanoff and spilled out into the alley behind the club.

Romanoff was already heading off to the east.

"Natasha, wait," he called.

But he couldn't keep up. Hot, sticky blood was leaking down his shoulder, down his chest, making his shirt cling to him like a second skin, wet and slick. He stopped, panting, one hand pressed to his shoulder, bent over his knees, a curse thrown in the direction of the pavement.

A hand clamped around his elbow and he envisioned one of Strucker's men, broad with muscle, but when he raised his head, it was Romanoff he saw instead.

"You delivered your message," she said. "You should go. Your job is done."

He fished the keys from his pocket and gestured to his motorcycle. "Don't have much time before they start sniffing around back here for us."

She raised an eyebrow and didn't hesitate when she snatched the keys and started the engine.

Romanoff found a hole in the wall motel on the outskirts of Budapest, tucked into a tangle of streets and dead end alleys, entwined with shadows, anonymous with cash and no questions asked.

She helped Clint to the tiny bathroom, mold blooming in the corners, the ceiling starting to peel, and the faucet an endless, maddening _drip, drip, drip_. She eased him to the floor, his back braced against the tub, and mercilessly pressed a towel to his shoulder. He hissed at the contact.

"Keep pressure on that," she said. "I'll find some clothes."

Clint slid further onto the floor, his head tipped back against the tub, as he listened to Romanoff's steps recede to the door then fade entirely. And he wondered if she'd come back or if she was gone for good this time. She had no connections now, Ivan was dead, along with Alexei, and Clint…he could tell Romanoff didn't know what to do with him, that much was clear every time he looked her in the eye.

An hour later, Romanoff did return. By that time, the bleeding had stopped, leaving Clint a weak heap on the floor. She tossed a pair of jeans and a t-shirt at him and as she turned to the sink, setting a first aid kit on the counter, Clint noticed the flare of red staining her shoulder blade.

"You're hurt," he said, struggling to his feet.

She skirted aside and glanced at him, wary. "I'm fine."

"But you're bleeding."

"I'll take care of it."

He sighed and tossed the bloodied towel in the bathtub.

"You'll never trust me no matter what I do, will you?" he said.

"No," she replied, simple, matter of fact, a statement of truth. "You lied to me. Why should I?"

He grimaced. "About that…"

"You were doing your job." She fished out a pair of tweezers from the first aid kit and gestured to the edge of the bathtub. "Sit. Time to get that bullet out."

Stubbornly, he didn't budge, still facing her. She let her hand drop.

"What?" she demanded.

"You nearly blew me up. I'm half-deaf because of you. And now you've shot me. How do I know you won't stab me in the back?"

"With a pair of tweezers?"

"You're probably the only person in the world who could manage it but I have faith in you."

A stutter of hesitation. Then she narrowed her eyes. "Just sit down already."

"Fine," he huffed.

He settled on the edge of the tub and she perched beside him, her knee pressed to his thigh in such a way that wasn't entirely unintentional or innocent. It was more a reminder that she could still hurt him if he turned against her.

She took the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, surprisingly careful around his wounded shoulder.

"Aren't you supposed to buy me a drink first?" he said, tongue-in-cheek despite his exhaustion, despite the fact that he knew mouthing off around an assassin wasn't one of his better ideas. But he couldn't help himself. He needed a distraction from the heat of her bare knee against his leg and the way her knuckles tripped up his ribs when she stripped off his shirt without preamble.

In response, Romanoff applied the slightest pressure with her thumb to the hole in his shoulder and he fell silent, cringing at the flare of pain.

"Stop talking," she said, flat and unamused. Although, he noted, not quite a warning either.

Clint snapped his mouth shut…for a little while anyway. But when Romanoff's fingers settled against his chest, he flinched and sucked in a breath. Not because she hurt him, like he had expected her to. It was because she _didn't_. Her touch was shockingly feather light and soft, not man-handling, not rough.

After a moment, she said, "You're lucky, you know. To only lose half of your hearing."

He snorted. "Doesn't feel that way. Seems like I'm your personal target practice."

"If I'd really wanted to hurt you, you would have lost your life."

"Comforting thought. Why am I letting you dig a bullet out of me again?"

Romanoff pushed into the wound, the press of her fingers firm and bold this time, sharpened by the cold metal of the tweezers. Clint's grip tightened on the edge of the tub as he bowed his head, no longer looking at Romanoff, no longer keeping her in his line of sight. He was entirely at her mercy anyway, he realized that a long time ago.

"Got it," she declared as she dropped the bullet into the tub with a metallic plink. She wrapped his shoulder with gauze then moved to shut the first aid kid before he put out a hand to stop her.

"I saw you hit the ground hard when the bullets started flying," he said. "Someone should get that glass out of your back."

"I'll handle it."

He let his hand come to rest on the edge of the tub, a mere inch away from hers, his little finger nearly brushing hers.

"Let me help you, Natasha," he whispered. "I'm not asking you to trust me."

Her gaze flicked up to him and the burn of hostility was returning hot and fast if he didn't cool it quick.

"Then what are you asking?" she said.

"You helped me. You didn't kill me when you had the chance. I'd like to do the same for you."

She looked away and after a trembling heartbeat, Clint's fingers skimmed over her knuckles. He slipped the tweezers from her grasp and still she didn't move, didn't put up a fight. When he shifted around to sit behind her, the heat of her knee wasn't against his thigh anymore, but his relief melted at this new perspective he had of Romanoff, closer than before, with the sweeping long line of her neck and the curve of her shoulder facing him.

He tucked a finger under the zipper of her dress and paused, waiting for permission. She swatted his hand aside and tugged the zipper down to her waist on her own. Even with her back turned to him, he could see the defiant tilt of her chin as she kept the front of her dress pinned to her chest with one hand. He might be getting past her defenses, exposed to him this way, but she didn't have to like it.

Romanoff's shoulders hitched up around her ears when Clint's thumb grazed her shoulder blade, skin to skin. She must hate this, not being able to see him, allowing him to sit at her back.

Minutes passed in silence. Clint had hoped that the longer he stood there without saying anything that Romanoff might relax but she never did, not even for a second.

"Why did you come for me?" she said at last, soft with curiosity but there was an undeniable edge lancing underneath it too, a hidden blade to draw blood if he wasn't careful.

Clint paused. He trailed two fingers over the line of her shoulder and down her arm, coming to rest at the inside of her elbow. Only then did she seem to sag a little. Tired. Confused.

Scared.

He imagined these weren't normal feelings for her to experience on any kind of a regular basis and even though she was trying to hide it, to kick it under the rug and smother it, he could still see it.

She'd been lied to, used, manipulated, over and over, and now she simply wanted the truth. And if Clint didn't give that to her, no one else would.

"Glutton for punishment," he replied, "like you said."

She laughed, just a tiny bit, a broken, strangled sound. Because if she didn't laugh, Clint knew, she would cry.

He couldn't stop there. He'd said it to make her laugh, to make her stop looking like she hated his guts, even though she had every right to. But she needed the truth, she deserved that, after the hell she'd been put through.

"I know a little of what it's like," he said slowly, his palm still curved around her elbow, to ground himself as much as to ground her. "To have everything suddenly…turned upside down. Can't tell who to trust. Don't have a friend in the world. The people you care about are gone."

The hostility in every rigid line of Romanoff's body faded. And he supposed he might have imagined it but…he could have sworn she swayed back towards him, only a quarter of an inch, barely there at all. He could feel her heat, realized the bare skin of her shoulder was only a breath away and all he had to do was lean down, touch his lips to the curve of her neck and shoulder.

He closed his eyes at the suddenness of that thought in his mind, that thought he shouldn't have entertained in the first place.

"That's why I came for you," he said, redirecting his attention back to the subject at hand. "I was lucky. I got a second chance."

"And now?" she said, a dry rasp in the pause. "You said that I was your mission but not in the way I'd thought."

"I'm here off the books. Pretty sure I don't have that second chance anymore." He stopped and shook his head. "Probably don't."

"Told you there was no such thing," she said, careful and quiet with no heat to it. Only drowning in regret.

"But I had it. I just…gave it up."

Romanoff twisted around to look at him. "Why?"

He glanced down at his hands. "It used to be me and my brother. Every day, he promised he had my back. And then one day…he didn't. I felt like part of me was missing."

"As if there was only half of you left," Romanoff added, a breath in the stillness.

Clint raised his head and when he met her gaze, she wasn't sizing him up, gauging whether or not he was telling the truth. For once, there was no reserve. She believed him. This…this was a gold thread of trust, barely there at all, and one wrong move, one misplaced word, he would lose her for good.

He nodded. "I learned the hard way that you can't take on the world by yourself. It's too much and it'll kill you, run you into the ground. People have risked their necks for me, to give me that second chance. People fought for me when I believed no one ever would again, not after my brother…bailed on me. I guess…" He paused and shrugged. "I wanted to do the same for you."

"That doesn't even make sense," Romanoff muttered, turning her back on him again.

He bit the inside of his cheek and slid closer to her. His hand settled at her hip and she didn't protest so he let out a breath of relief and kept going. She was still listening, waiting.

"I'm not familiar with all the details," he continued. She tensed slightly and he rushed to add, "But I'm not asking. I just…get the feeling things have been rough for you. For a long, long time. And I know it probably seems impossible now but…that second chance is still there. If you want it."

He dipped his chin until his mouth was a bare inch away from her shoulder and he could smell the liquor and smoke from the bar still clinging to her skin, feel a stray blonde curl tumble forward and brush his cheek.

"You're always fighting," he whispered. "But you don't have to do it alone, Natasha."

She didn't look at him but he could tell by the lift of her shoulders, hardly there at all, so carefully, rigidly controlled, that he had struck a chord, finally reaching past that façade she maintained with such vigilance. Clint said nothing and waited, his fingers settling a little firmer into her hip to ground her.

Then she turned towards him and a single tear slid down her cheek as she kissed him, light as butterfly wings. Her breath hitched on a sob as Clint took her face in his hands.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said against her lips. "I promise."


	17. It Stays in Budapest

She shouldn't have kissed him, Natasha knew that.

It wasn't a matter of trust. She'd thrown trust to the wind years ago, sent it scattering like so much ash and dust that crumbled in her palm and left her bleeding. She never wanted to trust anyone again, not after Ivan, not after Alexei, not after this hellscape she'd been through.

Then if it wasn't about trust…what was it?

She shouldn't have kissed him because it wasn't part of this…not a game, but it wasn't the job either. It was a push and pull, back and forth, chase and be chased, that they'd developed since their first meeting.

Natasha had become all too familiar with the taste and feel of seduction, the power play of lust and aggression, lies and half-truths. Secrets grew black and rotten and turned every kiss, every touch into a wrestling match for the upper hand.

This wasn't like that.

This was soft. This was as slow and reverent as a dream she never wanted to wake up from to face the nightmare that her life had become. There were none of the sharp edges and hidden traps of everything she'd ever known since she was a little girl, a young recruit in the Red Room, one of the first Black Widow spiderlings to have her heart carved from her chest and transformed into a world class killer.

This was everything that should have been, everything she'd missed, everything she still craved with an ache so deep in her chest, sometimes she couldn't breathe. This was sweetness and gentleness and a different kind of loyalty that didn't have anything to do her job.

She couldn't file Clint away into a box. She'd tried, over and over, but he kept slipping right out again, continually surprising her with his predictable unexpectedness and his talk of second chances, looking so damn sincere.

And it terrified her.

Training had never failed her before. Natasha knew how to handle the unknown, the variable factors of foreign territory that her training may not have covered in depth, but she always found a way out. She worked things through and she moved on.

Clint was like a bad penny, a ghost coming back to haunt her, sliding right past her defenses, every single one of them. She wanted to believe him and his ridiculously naïve thinking that anyone could have a second chance, even the likes of her, with blood dripping from her hands and so many red stains in her ledger. She wanted to have his optimism, foolish though it was, that people wouldn't disappoint you, some of them at least, the _right_ ones, as if it was so easy to find them.

Despite her better judgment, time and time again, she gravitated back to him, enemies or allies, it made no difference. His normalcy turned her jealous, made her _hurt _with hunger for a life she'd dreamed of and thought she could never have.

And she kissed him over and over. With the salt of tears and bitter regret on first her lips then his, knowing it wouldn't last.

If he was good, if he was pure, if this wasn't some trick up his sleeve that she had been so idiotically blind to for all this time, then he would die too. The good ones always did. Pure hearts became targets, the soft parts of their kindness bleeding at the slightest pressure, the faintest nick of a blade or a bullet.

If this was a set up…?

Then she'd claim his death for this alone. For seeing her cry. For seeing the mess of vulnerability she had become at his words that she found herself clinging to instead of brushing away. Clinging and clinging until her fingers turned bone white with desperation.

Clinging to _him_.

Him and his promises of second chances that sounded so good, so tempting, so_ real_ she could reach out and touch as if they were stars and she stood among them, no matter how impossible they were.

Clint slid one arm around her waist while his other hand hooked beneath her thigh and he pulled her onto his lap, legs locked around his hips. She plied his mouth open with her tongue, drawing the most delicious wrecked sound from him as his fingers settled between the spaces of her ribs, so dangerously close to the frantic pumping of her runaway heart.

"You can't," Natasha said in a pause of kisses, teeth grazing his bottom lip, pushing against him, needing the heat and the closeness of him, unguarded as he was, unguarded as he made her to be.

How long had it been since she'd kissed someone without thoughts of a weapon at hand, theirs or hers? When was the last time she kissed someone because she wanted to, because she burned to do it, instead of getting information, working an angle, creating a distraction?

She couldn't remember. And maybe a small part of her didn't want to remember either, didn't want to sift through countless memories to find the dusty, aged one she was trying to recall so, so long ago.

Clint brushed her hair aside and the broad expanse of his palm came to rest against her cheek, touching his forehead to hers.

"I can't what?" he said.

She closed her eyes. The dream was going to shatter. It wouldn't last. She'd known that the moment she tasted him. But she'd started to say it already, the path to destroy this dream had already begun. Now she had to return to the nightmare of her reality.

"You can't promise that," she replied.

"Why not?"

"Because it's a promise you have no power to keep."

Clint angled his head to the side to look her in the eyes. "How many times have you tried to kill me?"

She stiffened slightly as cracks began to develop in the dream, glimpses of shadows like sharks snaking around them, her nightmare threatening to break through too soon already.

"What's your point?" she said, and she winced at how harsh and bitter and sharp she sounded but she knew nothing else. She'd always been like this, all angles and sharp edges.

Clint leaned in to brush his nose with hers, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip.

"I've managed to survive one of the best assassins in the world. Give me a little credit here, Nat."

The way he said it – _Nat_ – as if he wasn't already well acquainted with the mass grave of skeletons she'd buried in the boundless closet of her mind, as if he'd been calling her that for years and it was the most natural habit in the world…it turned her into a mess of confusion and she didn't like it.

Warmth blossomed in her chest, warmth and familiarity and easiness. But there was an icy finger of wary dread threading along the length of her spine too, the flare of instincts rising to the surface. Wariness that someone was getting close, someone who could get hurt, someone who could hurt her. Dread because she should run, she should shut this off, put distance between them and never go anywhere near him again.

Was this what a second chance felt like? Hope blossoming from the dark spaces of a broken heart mended too many times to hold together properly anymore? To have fear trembling in her veins until her hands shook and her breath hitched and all she wanted, needed, _craved,_ was more of that heady, intoxicating hope despite the terror of being broken all over again?

_Nat._

Natasha closed her eyes and let her hands fall away from Clint, the smoothness of his skin and his hard-headed determination to slip past every wall she'd ever built to protect herself. She slid off of him, rearranged her dress, adjusted the zipper, and left the bathroom, that tiny space that had suddenly become too stifling.

And still, Clint was watching her, following her. He stopped at the bathroom door, shoulder leaning against the wall. He didn't speak, not yet, not while she had her back to him, struggling to piece herself together and failing again and again.

"I wasn't really trying, you know," she said, summoning as much bite to her words as she could.

Hurt him. Make him bleed. That was what training had taught her.

It hadn't worked before. He kept coming back for more. But training was what she knew and eventually, pain – emotional, physical, psychological – would deter anyone, even the likes of Clint Barton.

"Kill me, you mean?" Clint said.

Natasha nodded without looking at him. The door was within reach. All she had to do was cross the gap, turn the knob, and she could disappear. Clint couldn't chase her down forever. She would outlast him if she just continued to run, doing the one thing she'd done for her entire life.

"If I'd been serious about it," she said, "you'd never have a chance. You've got rookie written all over you."

Clint gave a small dissatisfied hum and Natasha fought to keep herself from flinching as she heard him take a step closer.

"If you weren't really trying," he whispered, his words breathed into the curve of her neck and shoulder. "Why did you leave me alive?"

She had no ready response to that.

_I don't know,_ she thought.

But she did know. He defied the odds. After everything he'd been through, after everything she'd put him through, it hadn't turned him bitter, hadn't burned his optimism away like it had for her.

_Call it dumb luck_, she thought.

But that was weak and she knew he'd see right through it. There might be a grain of truth buried in it – he _had_ been incredibly lucky to have survived – but giving the credit to luck would demean her skills, an automatic admission of failure, an admission no assassin would ever swallow let alone speak aloud.

_I want to believe you,_ she thought. _I want a second chance._

But she could never say that.

Natasha turned to face Clint. He hadn't touched her, not since she had walked out of the bathroom and left him there. He'd followed, just like he usually did, but this time, there was a bare six inches between them. A small distance for Clint who had traveled countless miles to find her and yet it was an interminable distance for her.

This was her choice. This was her decision. If she wanted that second chance, it was there for the taking. All she had to do was reach across six short inches…

Natasha's gaze slowly tracked up towards Clint face and stopped at the hollow of his throat, not quite looking him in the eyes, entirely certain her courage would fail her if she saw the lightness in him that could so easily get crushed, especially around her and her nightmare dark.

Her hand came up, fingertips shaking just short of his heart. Her hand stopped and it was only four inches now, she told herself, four inches was nothing.

She couldn't do this.

But Natasha's hand stayed there, hovering above Clint's heart, not touching him, not looking at him, memorizing the way his skin stretched across his collar bones and along his neck, barely covering the steady thrumming of his pulse.

In that moment, she realized, they were both suspended, floating, adrift, reaching for anchors in each other. He was in her hands as she was in his hands.

One small cut, miniscule and insignificant, and she could make his pulse spill onto the carpet, make him bleed.

One small touch, a brush of her fingertips, and he could make her bleed, he'd have the power to do it with his trust, the only thing in the world that truly scared her.

Then Clint's hand skimmed up her forearm and his palm came to rest over the back of her hand. It wasn't a push and it wasn't a threat. It was only a reassurance, a reminder that if she chose this, Clint would be there, watching her back, always.

Together, Clint and Natasha's hands folded as one and the last few inches disappeared as her palm settled over his heart.

She met his gaze, slowly, steadily, and he smiled in that way, unaffected and so, so easy that it tugged her closer as it had many times already.

Before she knew it, her arms were sliding around his shoulders, her face buried in his neck, the hope and the fear and this foreign unknown tangled in her chest.

Maybe, said a vague feeling shifting and gliding through her, maybe this could be home.

She didn't know what home felt like just as she didn't know if this was, really, a second chance or yet another mistake in a horrifically long line of mistakes lately. But whatever it was, it felt right. For now at least. And she wanted to feel right, just once, just for a little while.

[][][]

Realization broke through her sleep before she was fully awake. Memories of the previous night blossomed in her mind, blindingly bright and clear, memories of Clint's arms around her, fingers buried in her hair, how he stole her breath and she stole his with a look, a touch, a kiss.

There'd been no grappling, no power plays. Secrets had lingered of course, hers more than his, and she had so many secrets she wished she could forget. It hadn't made him hesitate, hadn't made him falter. He'd been bold, unwavering, as he said only _I'm not going anywhere_ over and over, pressed into her skin with his lips and his hands, his promises so fragile and breakable.

And now her brain chanted _run _though she supposed it always would. But Clint was still here, heartbeat steady and strong against her cheek, his head turned slightly, lips brushing her forehead.

Her hand slid along the bare planes of Clint's torso, traveled over the bandage at his shoulder, the pain she'd inflicted on him, the blood she'd drawn from him to save him, protect him, an instinct that didn't belong to her head where logic and rationale ruled, an instinct that belonged to a softer place she thought she'd lost years ago.

Finally, Natasha dared to open her eyes.

Grimy paint was peeling from the walls and there was a blossom of mold in the corner of the room. The faucet in the bathroom had resumed its infuriatingly rhythmic drip, drip, drip. The pale, slim fabric of her dress lay in a heap on the floor like a second skin she had shed to let this newness grace her, tender and pink and riddled with scars raw, exposed.

And as she watched the rise and fall, rise and fall, of Clint's chest, watched her fingers trace the tendons and the bones and the veins in his hand, she wondered…did it still feel right?

"Thought you would have taken off by now," Clint said, voice gravel-rough with sleep.

It wasn't serious, just a tease, a joke to ease the weight they now carried between them, the weight of bullets and tears, broken hearts and new beginnings so tentatively held close.

Natasha nosed at the slope of his neck, took his earlobe between her teeth without any pressure, a tease in return.

She didn't know how to turn off the reminders, serious or playful, that she could hurt him. She didn't know how to not cause pain. She wasn't used to looking at another human being as anything other than a target with arteries to cut and bones to break. She wasn't used to harboring the belief that another human being had the potential to care for her, to kiss her good morning, to grant her forgiveness she didn't deserve, yet it was given nonetheless.

A dozen responses sprang to the tip of her tongue, some a light jab to match his, others too serious and dark for the moment, and still others that would leave her even more exposed and she wasn't ready for that. So she swallowed them all.

She'd spent too much of her life compartmentalizing the good and the bad into the hazy gray of nothing, rendering her a blank slate, a weapon of reaction alone, to destroy, to complete her mission. She didn't want to compartmentalize this here and now with words that bit and cut and carved, words that became her defenses whether she intended them to or not.

Instead of a reply, Natasha moved. She slid on top of him, knees nestled in beside his ribs, leaning over him. Clint held his palm out to her and she placed her hand flat against his before interlacing her fingers, one at a time, with his, anchoring him, anchoring her.

She placed a kiss there, at the hollow of his throat that she had memorized the night before, stared at when she couldn't bear to touch him and his seemingly impossible promises. Her lips trailed down his chest, mouth open with slick wet heat, punctuated by the graze of her teeth and the flat of her tongue and the shivery feather of her breath.

Clint's free hand curved over her hip, gliding along every swell and dip of her, waist and ribs, shoulder and throat, heart and lungs, until he cupped her face in his hand. His thumb smoothed the length of her cheekbone, pulling her close with no effort at all when she was already drifting towards him. He kissed her so softly, so completely, that she went boneless and breathless against him.

_Yes,_ Natasha thought. _It still feels right. _

And the realization wasn't quite as frightening as before.

[][][]

It was different in the daylight, when the musty little hotel room had been left behind and the full impact of what Natasha had agreed to set in like a kick to the gut. Clint had found a sleepy café two and a half blocks down the street, and as they huddled at a corner table, voices pitched low, she'd interrogated him about what she'd gotten herself into.

She tried to keep reminding herself that she wasn't a turncoat exactly. The KGB had disintegrated, rotten to the core thanks to Strucker's betrayal, leaving her nothing to return to. And she had never been a part of HYDRA so she refused to mourn what she didn't want in the first place.

But…SHIELD? Was she ready for that kind of a commitment all over again? To associate herself with any form of government organization after the corruption she'd endured?

As if in answer to her thoughts, Clint placed his hand over hers on the table, pulled her hand to his mouth, and placed a kiss in her palm, curling her fingers around it like the gift that it was. She hadn't voiced her concerns and she knew her face didn't give anything away. But somehow Clint knew and his ability to read her, to guess her thoughts, was going to take a lot of getting used to.

"How are you holdin' up?" he said softly, inclined towards her like he wanted to slide in closer.

But it wasn't just the two of them anymore, defenses stripped away like clothing, burdens nudged off like old worn shoes left by the door. They were in public now and Natasha couldn't stop keeping tabs on the room, on the older couple at the table by the door, or the college student with her piles of textbooks and notes, or the man at the table beside them taking far longer than necessary to draw out his cup of coffee as he re-read the newspaper splayed before him for the second time.

"Fine," Natasha said.

Clint cast a sideways squint at her. "That's it? That's all you're going to give me?"

"What more do you want?"

"Nat," he whispered, the bare edge of frustration shadowed beneath his tone.

Despite his frustration, despite the slightest grit of his teeth, she still liked the way he said it, knowing full well she probably shouldn't.

Clint took the risk and shifted closer, his shoulder pressed to hers. With their table wedged into the corner like it was, with the afternoon light falling into gold ribbons on his hands and the lapel of his jacket and shadowing his eyelashes, she could almost pretend it was just the two of them again and this closeness was normal, this closeness was habit, this closeness was hers whenever she wanted it, hers for the taking. Always.

"You've hardly spoken two words together since this morning," he added.

Natasha glanced down at her coffee, the curls of steam rising and disappearing into the air.

"When it comes to things like this," she replied, "I've been stabbed in the back a couple of times. You'll have to forgive me if I'm a little on edge."

Clint brushed the back of his finger over her cheek, sweeping a curl behind her ear, his thumb tracing down the curve of her neck.

"As long as you're not getting cold feet," he said.

She couldn't help it. The challenge was already out of her mouth, out of her control, a knee-jerk reaction.

"And if I was?"

She'd tried to reason with her instincts that this was an opportunity she should at least look at, check to see if it was viable. She did want it, after all, this mythical thing called a second chance that Clint had, supposedly, witnessed. But she wanted plenty of things in life only to wind up chasing idealistic butterflies with razor sharp wings.

Clint studied her for so long in silence. Then, very solemn, he spoke.

"We'll have to get you some socks," he said.

At first, Natasha waited, expecting something more than that. But Clint simply sipped at his coffee, watching her over the rim of his cup, and she realized he wasn't going to reassure her, wasn't going to reason away her concerns. That was it.

And she drove her fist into his stomach, not anywhere near hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs like he deserved. But he doubled over anyway, spluttering coffee onto his jeans and the table.

"I'm being serious," she said.

"So am I," he laughed as he caught her hand and pulled her into him, into the spice of his soap and the earthy leather of his jacket and the sharpness of his coffee.

She shouldn't have melted at his touch like she did, like he was heat and she was the softest whipped cream, sliding right into his arms as if it was the only place she belonged, the only place she ever wanted to be.

She should have fought him, maintained her composure and her distance when they were in the public eye. She'd lost sight of the room and she wasn't keeping track of the entrances and exits. She was making him a target, displaying to the world her Achilles' heel, practically flaunting it.

Then Clint's fingers threaded through her hair as he kissed her forehead and she didn't move.

"It's okay to be nervous," he said, only loud enough for her to hear, mumbled into the top of her head as he held her.

_I'm not,_ she wanted to bite back. More of her knee-jerk instincts hard at work.

But she was. Because as much as she hated to admit it, she needed this. It was by no means a fresh start or absolution. She could never get rid of the sins she'd committed, never wash her hands clean. She couldn't undo what she'd already done. But she hoped – such a dangerous, unreliable, flimsy word – that with SHIELD, with Clint, she could do something she was proud of for once.

"Please don't tell anyone," Natasha said, words muffled against Clint's chest. "Not if you don't have to."

"Don't tell anyone what?"

"This," she said so small and quiet Clint must have felt more than heard it, formed by her lips at his heart.

"I get it. An assassin has to protect her reputation."

Natasha bristled and pushed away from him. "No, smartass, I'm protecting _you_."

As soon as she said it, heat rushed up her neck, flared across her cheeks. It was one thing to think it, smother it into submission into the dark corners of her mind. But she'd actually said it, spoken it out loud. There was no taking it back, no denying its existence.

A beat of silence.

_If you joke about this, _Natasha thought,_ I'll kick you so hard, you'll be seeing stars for a week._

"All right," Clint said at last, very, very carefully. "What happened in Budapest, stays in Budapest."

He didn't reach for her, didn't try to fill the emptiness caused by the rift Natasha had created so suddenly like an earthquake.

Guilt twined through her rib cage and yanked but she didn't speak, not until the coffee was finished, a tip tucked beneath Clint's cup, and they were on the street again. She watched with a sneaking nudge of regret she didn't appreciate as Clint shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and kept a respectable distance between them.

That's when Natasha started talking. She had never felt the need to explain herself before and she didn't feel it now. But he needed to hear this much at least.

"Ivan took me in when my parents died," she said, not looking at him, scanning the street at her feet and the people passing on either side. "I barely remember them, mostly just impressions. The way my mother sang in the mornings and the smell of my father's aftershave like cinnamon and brandy. Most of my memories belong to Ivan. He knew I'd done terrible things but…he didn't care. He told me I would always be his little girl…"

She stopped, swayed forward on her toes, willing herself to keep moving like she always had. It was how she survived, how she didn't get mired down in the horrors of her past.

Clint took two more steps before he realized she wasn't beside him and turned around, waiting. He doubled back until he stood next to her, his elbow almost but not quite touching hers.

"And Alexei?" he said. "Who was he?"

"My handler at the KGB. He taught me that my life wasn't my job, that I was more than just a killing machine, an…_assassin_," she said, putting a spitting emphasis on the word that she'd become, that she'd been reduced to. "I fell in love with him when I wasn't supposed to."

Finally, Natasha dragged her gaze up to meet Clint's eyes with a small, brave little smile.

"He was killed on our honeymoon seven years ago. Right in front of me and I couldn't stop it."

"That's what Strucker was talking about that night in the bar?" Clint asked.

Natasha nodded. "They were targets. Because of me."

Immediately, Clint seized her hand in such a tight grip that she blinked and almost stepped back.

"Don't," he said. "Don't blame yourself for their deaths. It wasn't your fault."

"Whether it was my fault or not, my work got them killed. All it took was the wrong kind of person, someone like Strucker, to figure out how…important…" she said, forcing the word out, "…that Ivan and Alexei were to me. That's why you can't…"

She trailed off, her throat too tight and her voice too shaky to continue.

_That's why you can't tell anyone,_ she thought. _Because I can't go through that again._

Clint's grip on her hand softened. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder as he kissed her temple and cradled the back of her head.

"Won't speak a word of it to another living soul," he said. "Just you and me, Nat. No one else. I promise."

More promises, breakable as glass. One wrong step and she'd fall through. One wrong step and she'd bleed.

_Run,_ her instincts whispered.

But Natasha closed her eyes and slid her hands into Clint's jacket, palms roaming over the fabric of his t-shirt, warmed by his skin. She pressed her face into his shoulder, and for one blessed moment, she allowed herself to lose sight of the world around her and breathed.


End file.
